


Worlds Collide

by LuckyDuck49



Category: Pride and Prejudice & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Light Angst, Misunderstandings, Okay Real Angst, Spies & Secret Agents, ahhh, real angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:26:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 26,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26972119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyDuck49/pseuds/LuckyDuck49
Summary: Historical AU. In the 1770s, Elizabeth Bennet is wild young revolutionary, bent on doing whatever she can to help her cause. Right now, that means investigated a new arrival to Meryton, a Mr. Darcy, who, despite being on the opposite side of brewing war, may be the one she’s been looking for. Dreadful shame then, his occupation being the same as hers.Fluff and fun and misunderstandings, as well as a mystery/adventure element ;)Sorry, I did not finish this one. I have the plot planned out, but May not write it just yet. No cliffhangers tho— just a contemplative possibility for more
Relationships: Elizabeth Bennet/Fitzwilliam Darcy, Jane Bennet/Charles Bingley
Comments: 16
Kudos: 44





	1. New Arrivals in the New World

**Author's Note:**

> Hey yall! This work is gonna be a lot longer than my previous work in this fandom, but we’re gonna roll with it! I’ll be posting at least every day (I hope, school starts soon so idk), sometimes more than that if the mood strikes me. Anyway, I hope y’all enjoy this historical romance/adventure, feel free to leave me any comments or suggestions you have along the way!  
> Stay safe out there, my chickadees! - Vinny 🌻

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a budding country in the midst of a revolution, must be in want of a spy. Or two. 

In the modern world of the 70s (1770s, of course), a renaissance of sorts was taking place in the British colonies. Well, British colonies in name only. The people living in them generally considered themselves “American” and mildly resented their overseas overlords for a few unjust acts. 

England was in a financial crisis after the French and Indian War, and the solution was simple. They had spent vast quantities of resources defending their colonies; why should the people they protected not cover the bill? Really, it all would have worked out rather nicely, had they actually talked this over with the colonists beforehand. The British parliament began taxing colonists relentlessly, and did not allow American diplomats on the board to represent their people, who, despite being only relatively poor beforehand, were now commonly living hand to mouth from the excessive taxes. They were ignored. Colonists were taxed, and those back home in the mother England congratulated each other on the rousing success the tax plan was becoming. They slept well, and dreamt of a world where unseen people provided for all their needs. Americans on the other hand, began to dream of a revolution.

But, all that was in the future. So far, no actual military action had been taken. Tensions were rising, but then again, they always were. Nevertheless though, those on both sides of the sea came to the conclusion that something was happening, something they wanted to be aware of. But if they took action— and were caught— they could start a war. And neither side wanted that. Yet.

So the cards were put into play. 

A ship, a great big galleon with the British flag snapping cheerily in the ocean breeze, pulled into the harbor. A passenger waited on the deck impatiently, tapping his fingers against the rail, drumming out a beat his little sister had once played for him back home. When the ship stopped and the gangplank was lowered, the man was one of the first ones off the ship. His luggage followed in the arms of a quiet gentleman with dark skin and a soft spoken nature. The man in front, the one with a handsome yet glowering expression, stalked ahead of his party, eager to be at his destination. 

He lingered at the harbor, the Boston harbor, and leaned against a cobblestone wall, looking out to see, thinking. Brooding would have been the better term, but he himself didn’t know that. The woman watching him did. 

A wave crashed into the wharf, and a spray of saltwater doused the man’s funny-looking hat. He spluttered, wiping his face with the back of his hand. The woman watching him covered her mouth and tried desperately not to laugh. The man’s friend did not have the same problem.

“Woah there, Darcy!” The ginger-haired gentleman exclaimed, “Glad to see you finally getting  _ a TASTE  _ for the ocean!”

The man (who had taken off his hat, revealing a nest of dark curls), who had now been identified as Darcy, glared at his friend.

“Do you get it? The joke? You got a taste fo—”

“Yes I got it!” Darcy snapped.

His friend backed up a step before putting his hand on the other’s shoulder. “I apologize, Darcy. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” the man growled. 

His friend nodded, wide-eyed and innocent. Darcy glanced over at him. He sighed. 

“No, I should be the one apologizing. I’ve been in a foul mood all day, and it wasn’t right for me to take it out on you. I’m sorry, Bingley.”

The ginger (Bingley) laughed, and dismissed the serious tone with a wave of his hand. “Ho ho, I NEVER thought I’d see the day! Fitzwilliam Darcy, apologizing! Do you think the Ton would ever believe it if I told them.”

Fitzwilliam Darcy grinned despite himself. “No,” he answered, “they’d all think you’d gone as mad as a hatter.”

“Mad for the New World, perhaps,” Bingley said, breathing in a deep lungful of sea air, “It’s all so exciting, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“The New World, Darce! New ideas, new culture, new people!”

“I knew the New beforehand. It’s hardly news if you knew it; so it must have newly become not-new.”

Bingley stared at his friend, who, for his part, was struggling to keep a straight face. Then the two men burst out laughing, startling both a passing seagull and the young woman watching them.

Another woman however (less young and a lot less stealthy) bustled onto the dock and interrupted the men’s subsiding laughter. 

“Charles! Charles, where are you?”

“Here, Caroline,” the ginger man (now known as Charles Bingley, the young woman noted) called. 

“Oh, Mr. Darcy! Do you know where we might be lodging for the night? You always are so prepared; I can’t imagine how this trip would go without you!”

Even from a hundred paces away, on a rooftop, the young woman watching them could see ‘Caroline’ batting her eyelashes. She thought she could also spot ‘Mr. Darcy’ rolling his eyes. She grinned.

“Thank you for the compliment, Miss Bingley, but I believe your brother would be far more well-equipped to answer your questions. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I must acquaint myself with the town before joining you at Netherfield. Good day.”

With that and a curt bow, Mr. Darcy nimbly sidestepped any other attempts at conversation, and walked briskly into town. The woman on the rooftop watched him go. She put her pencil down.

Her sketch of the new, wealthy British residents’ characters were far from complete. She only had a vague idea of what they were like. Elizabeth didn’t like when things were vague. In her line of work, that could be dangerous.

Mr. Charles Bingley, the new owner of the Netherfield estate just outside of Boston, seemed harmless enough, according to the papers. Still, with all that money (and British influence) he could upset the delicate balance of Loyalists and Revolutionaries the small town of Meryton had at the moment. His sisters, according to the rumors, were steadfast Loyalists, loyal to the crown and not to human rights. Though, of course, they themselves would disagree with that assessment.

Mr. Bingley himself though, might be swayed. He did not seem to be a hateful snob like all the other Loyalists Elizabeth had seen come and go from the Boston harbor. Plus, he was here and here to stay. That was a good sign.

His friend however, was a mystery. According to the ship’s registry, no one else should have been on board that Elizabeth hadn’t already memorized. So either he was a stowaway (unlikely, considering his overall mannerisms), or he had purchased a last-minute slot to travel to America.

_ That _ was interesting. 

He either was filthy rich if he could afford to carry out whims like that, or someone he knew and was in good favor with went by the name of King Midas. Or perhaps, all jokes aside, he really WAS in with the king. The real king, King George III. Maybe. Elizabeth would have to look into that.

But the REALLY interesting part was  _ WHY _ Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy suddenly was taken by the impulse to start a new life. His luggage was far from minimal, so either he was here for a vacation and was simply extravagant, or he had decided to live in Meryton with his friend. But why?

As Elizabeth puzzled over this, she wrote down every piece of information she could think of about that day, the boat, and all its passengers. She made quite a formidable list. As she read over it again and again, she kept coming to the same conclusion.

Fitzwilliam Darcy was a mystery. One that she, Elizabeth Bennet, patriot extraordinaire, was going to solve.


	2. Really Heating Up Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delve into Elizabeth’s past to understand her present. Normal sized chapter. Will post again in an hour or two :)

Elizabeth hadn’t always been involved with radicals. Indeed, she hadn't even sought them out! She had been born into a New World, one that was on a collision course with the Old one.

Her father, Mr. Bennet, had been mildly involved with some radicals in his time. He had spoken out against the evils of slavery and encouraged his family to seek out the truth. Unfortunately for him, the truth did not appreciate being sought.

Mr. Bennet, after being first discovered at a secret society meeting and then caught with a library full of contraband books, was arrested. He had been first taken to the local debtors prison before being relocated to a prison barge, after educating those in debtors prison about politics. His whole family had wept (though some had wailed) when he was gone. 

His wife, who had been before very silly indeed, was now presented with a problem. Her husband’s cousin, Mr. Collins, was entitled to the estate of Longbourn (the Bennet’s home) after Mr. Bennet’s death. Though technically not dead, Mr. Bennet was in prison, which was, in the eyes of Mr. Collins, reason enough to take the land. Mrs. Bennet became very serious very quickly, when presented with a situation such as this.

Her plan to stop this, one that would be deemed insane and bound to fail by any logical person, was put into motion.

Her second youngest daughter, Elizabeth Bennet (who was only sixteen at the time), would pose as a son to ward off the odious Mr. Collins. Now “Elijah” Bennet would claim his inheritance, and tell Mr. Collins, politely, to mind his damn business. 

Elizabeth carried out the plan with youthful gusto.

She wore trousers and a cap, with her long brown hair bunched up underneath it, and bound her chest with any fabric she could find. She deepened her voice, and applied bits of fur from an old coat to her face, to act as stubble. Elizabeth walked like a man, talked like a man, and ACTED like a man enough to fool Mr. Collins into leaving Longbourn in a disgruntled storm. 

Of course, the plan wouldn’t have worked if their cousin had had a lick of sense about him and actually looked at the family tree, but thankfully, he didn’t, and the plan worked perfectly. So perfectly in fact, that the young Elizabeth Bennet realized she had a knack for deception.

Now,  _ deception _ was an ugly word. Elizabeth only deceived when it was positively, ABSOLUTELY, necessary. Like when there was a cause that needed some effect. 

Elizabeth, when she was eighteen, was approached by a gentleman by the name of Greene, who asked to take her somewhere that night. Elizabeth, feeling threatened, acted innocent and followed the man into a secluded alley before sweeping his leg and pinning him up against a wall, a potato-peeling knife to his throat.

To her surprise, the man laughed and said she was even better than he had hoped. After a few more empty threats from Elizabeth, the man explained himself.

His name was Thomas Greene, and he was the Meryton leader of something called the Sons of Liberty. He was there to recruit a formidable young lady, who seemed to not only have a great local influence, but also the skills necessary to be very useful to their organization.

Elizabeth, still wary (but flattered), had agreed to hear the man out and come to the meeting that night. 

She went undercover, posing as Elijah Bennet once more, and learned about the injustices of the world around her. Elizabeth, having a very strong sense of right and wrong, was outraged, and joined the Sons of Liberty immediately. Of course, she still went under the name “Elijah Bennet” or just “Bennet” to keep her and her family’s reputations intact. The colonies might be progressive, but they weren’t THAT progressive. 

Elizabeth’s true identity in the organization was known only to a select few. She was deemed to valuable an asset to lose, despite her biological sex. Her memory was photographic, and her manners were charming, even to the most hard-hearted of the town. Elizabeth was also trained in hand-to-hand combat as well as etiquette, and had a mind that was sharper than most of her knives.

Despite these abilities however, she did not enjoy even the THOUGHT of harming people. Elizabeth’s work in the organization was purely gathering information and spreading awareness. She never took on any dangerous work, at her sister’s pleadings.

Her older sister, Jane, was the only one in the family who knew about Elizabeth’s little “projects”. She approved that her sister was fighting for what she believed in, even if Jane herself did not think it should be done in such a violent manner. In sweet Jane’s eyes, it was wrong of England to tax them without proper representation, but, she reasoned, it was just as wrong to start brawls in the street, just because someone had a British accent.

Elizabeth politely disagreed.

She thought action needed to be taken. Things were heating up in the colonies, and she for one did not want to be caught on the business end of the bayonet. Better to learn and to train in the shadows. She did that for years.

Her assignments from the organization were minimal. She would discreetly hand out pamphlets, stage debates in public places, and keep tabs on any Loyalists in the area that she felt were worth the trouble.

Which is why, at that moment, Elizabeth Bennet was climbing down from her rooftop perch, notebook tucked safely away in her corset along with a small knife (insurance). She was tailing the strange gentleman, the Mr. Darcy, and hoping to figure him out before long.

The man ducked into a bar a little ways into town. It was a respectable place, though it’s revolutionary influences were plain to see. Pamphlets decorated the windows, barely disguised with curtains and a half-hearted attempt at the British flag. Anyone with half a brain could see it was a den for the radicals. So why would Mr. Darcy, a loyalist fresh off the boat, be going in there?

She grinned. Oh yes, things were really heating up now.


	3. Tavern Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A British man fresh off the boat and a strange woman who knows too much, walk into a bar and start up a conversation. The bartender says, “what, is this some sort of summary?”
> 
> Longer chapter this time. Conversation and Darcy-the-Human-Disaster™. Enjoy!

Mr. Darcy walked into the first tavern he saw. He would have normally turned up his nose at such an establishment, but right now, he just needed a drink. And to get a feel for the town.

So, gathering his courage and going against all of his high-class instincts, he made his way to the bar. It was a homey place, with light flooding in through the front windows, illuminating the bar nicely. A billiards table sat near the back, collecting dust. A few patrons looked up when he came in, gave him a once-over, and returned to their drinks. Darcy swallowed. Suddenly the weight of being alone in a new place came crashing in. 

Oh lord. He was in a foreign country, no, a COLONY. One that was grumbling about becoming a country and starting a war. With him. With his people. Weren’t they all the same people, who came from the same place? Why the need to differentiate? Why were they still looking at him? Was he doing something wrong?

Darcy began to get that queasy feeling in his stomach, and his palms began to sweat. He wasn’t one for social situations, and right then he REALLY didn’t like how awkward everything he did felt. 

He sat down at the bar, and said yes to whatever drink the bartender offered him. He took a sip of something dark brown (that looked like it had chunks in it) and nearly gagged at the taste. Rat poison.

Before Darcy could discreetly pour the drink into a nearby potted plant, a very pretty young woman walked through the doors, and Darcy momentarily lost his thoughts.

She wore a simple brown dress, with a white collar and minimal frills. Not poor, certainly, but close to it. Her chestnut hair was tied up, though some curls escaped around her ears, bouncing into place, outlining her sculpted cheeks. She had laughing green eyes the color of the forest back home. 

Darcy thought her gaze landed on him for a split second, but that was probably just wishful thinking. He turned away, abashed, as she made her way to the bar.

“Mr. Rutherford, would you be so kind as to point me in the direction of today’s selection?” 

Her voice was light and lilting; it sounded like she was telling an inside joke that Darcy (for a fleeting moment) desperately wanted to be in on. The bartender turned around and grinned at the young woman. He had two brass teeth, and one that was missing entirely.

“‘Ello there! Do I know you?”

The young lady laughed. Her laugh was so much different than those half-starved females at the Ton. It was full and fluttering and sounded genuinely delighted with the man’s answer.

“Yes,” she said teasingly, leaning forward on the bar, “I daresay you do.”

The man matched her stance and bent toward her ever so slightly. Darcy kept his eyes on the barley digestible beverage in front of him, but continued to listen in on the conversation to his right.

“Back room,” the man whispered, “New shipment. Fresh from Phili’. Ol’ Ben Frank has been awfully busy as of late.”

The woman stuck out her lip in a phony pout. “I implore you— it’s not the almanac, is it? You will be calling me ‘Poor Elizabeth’ if I am forced to read that particular book yet again.”

“I’m sorry, Bennet. That’s all we got this week.”

The woman’s face fell, but she quickly covered it up. “Well, just give me a drink then, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Hard liquor or fruity?”

“Oh dear sir! You misjudge me! I simply meant a glass of water, if you would be so kind.”

The man laughed, a deeply throaty sound, and fetched the woman a glass of water. Darcy tried to focus on his own drink (decidedly NOT paying attention to the fact that she was looking his way) and grimaced at the taste.

Suddenly, the lady spoke, and Darcy was fairly sure she was speaking to him.

“I say, you must be new around here, or else you wouldn’t have let Rutherford give you the rat poison.”

Darcy’s tongue turned to sandpaper. So it WAS poison! Oh, how had he messed up the mission so quickly?! Hands shaking, he pushed the glass away and tried to calculate just how much he drank.

The woman’s voice brought his attention back to the present. “I- Y-you DO know I’m teasing?”

Darcy raised his eyes to the woman’s face and bristled when he saw her mirth mixed with concern. She was teasing him! A  _ stranger!  _ What kind of a woman was she?! He was Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley; he was not one to be  _ teased  _ in bars by what looked to be a welfare wench. He glared at her, and made no response.

Her face made an expression he couldn’t place (like she was cringing at her own actions), and motioned for the barkeep to come back over.

“Mr. Rutherford, will you be so kind as to get this gentleman an actual DRINK?”

The man chuckled sheepishly. “He agreed to it.”

She raised her eyebrows before turning to Darcy with a businesslike expression. “What drink do you normally have?”

“I, uh,” Darcy sputtered, taken off guard.

“Sweet whiskey, perhaps,” the young woman decided for him.

Darcy wasn’t a fan of how ‘take charge’ the women in America seemed to be. On the one hand, he was insulted, but on the other, he was immensely grateful to have the decision of whether or not to confront the bartender taken off his hands.

The man passed Darcy a short stubby glass full of a frothy, honey-colored liquid. Darcy took a tentative sip. It was.. cold, and tangy, with an aftertaste of something like apples. He could barely detect any alcohol, but the taste was so pleasure able he didn’t mind. He took another sip.

“Good, isn’t it?” The woman was grinning boyishly at him. 

He nodded politely, hoping she wouldn’t try and make conversation. Honestly, the people here were so crude.

“So,” she said, in a dreadfully conversational tone, “What’s your name, then?”

At Darcy’s look (which he had thought was neutral) she held her hands up defensively and added, “If you’re staying in the neighborhood for long, I should think we should be acquainted, sir.”

Mr. Darcy hesitated. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be undercover or not. “I am.. Mr. Darcy.” He decided to not give his first name out, as a precaution.

The young lady smiled again, and again Mr. Darcy had to look away. That smile really shouldn’t be out in public. It was too… intimate. Like a private joke. Or.. a favorite book, with childhood doodles in the margins. Or a half-asleep smile from under the bed covers, full of humor and trust and affection after you two had...

Mr. Darcy shook himself out of his uncharacteristically boyish thoughts. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

The smile was gone as the young woman repeated what she had said while Darcy’s mind had taken a quick trip to the gutter. “My name is Miss Bennet, sir.”

She had stuck out her hand as if she were a businessman, and Darcy just stared dumbly at it for a second, before remembering his manners and briskly shaking it. Her hands were warm and lingering on his. Or maybe that was just his imagination.

“Ah, um, pleasure to meet you,” He stumbled, his face burning for some reason he couldn’t understand.

“Likewise,” Miss Bennet said, smiling again.

She took a quick gulp of her water and stood up from the bar. “Oh, I’m sorry to cut our meeting short, but I must be going, Mr. Darcy. Good day.”

He was just about to wish her good day when she handed the barkeep a few bills and whispered something to the man. Darcy felt a twinge inside him, like his insides did a little hop.

Then she was gone, the doors to the bar swinging shut with a cloud of dust and sunbeams, marking her absence. It was like she was there one minute, then gone the next. Strange, puzzling woman. Intensely forward, yet.. uniformly charming, in a way. Mr. Darcy realized he’d been staring at the spot where she’d last been. He shook his head, and finished off the last of the tangy golden drink.

He got up, but when he tried to pay the bartender, the man laughed and told him Miss Bennet had covered the tab.

“She told me tuh tell ya,” the man said, his eyes catching the light, “‘Welcome to America, Fitzwilliam’.”

Mr. Darcy walked out of the bar in a daze, wondering what  _ on earth _ just happened.


	4. Darcy’s Reasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy reflects on what exactly brought him to his current circumstances. Just kinda a background chapter. Will hopefully post again later today!

Fitzwilliam Darcy wasn’t stupid. Far from it— he was a very intelligent person in almost every sense of the word. The only thing was.. he got tongue tied sometimes. Social situations unnerved him, and his wits would take a rain check. However, his defense mechanism for this was to act the part people assumed about him. Reserved, haughty, disdainful. Darcy could be that way, sometimes, but mostly he just wanted to crawl in a hole and die. Unfortunately, he had neglected to mention this to his employers.

His employers (he didn’t even know their real names) had been British intelligence officers, who had offered him a job when they saw 

A) How wealthy he was (meaning they would have access to his funds) 

B) How intelligent and observant he was

C) How he could play the part of the snooty Brit perfectly

And D) How he was ready to sever all ties with his home at a moment’s notice

This last reason HAD come as a shock to most people that knew Darcy on a deeper level (which was 2, maybe 3 people), since he had always been connected with his family. Unfortunately, recent events changed that. 

You see, the former Mr. and Mrs. Darcy passed away at a tragically young age. They left their son, in his late teens at the time, with partial guardianship of their youngest child. A sweet, shy girl by the name of Georgiana. This guardianship was shared with his favorite cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam, who was in the army. 

By the time Georgiana turned 16 (and Darcy 26), Richard had been Missing in Action for about four years. He had been deployed overseas, and somehow separated from his regiment, which had been patrolling after the French and Indian War. Darcy had never heard from his cousin again, and felt the loss greatly.

To make matters worse, his Aunt Catherine was given Richard’s share of his sister’s guardianship, and, in a moment of weakness, Darcy allowed her to be sent off to boarding school, after a rather… unfortunate incident with a Mr. Wickham. The Darcys’ reputation had almost been ruined; Georgiana had been young and naive, so she wasn’t blamed, but Darcy blamed himself constantly.

After losing his two closest relatives, Fitzwilliam Darcy realized he had almost nobody in the world he was close to. He was lonely. Cripplingly so.

So when his one solace, an amiable friend by the name of Charles Bingley, had purchased land in the New World and was leaving England behind, Darcy had an epiphany.

His life was going nowhere. Of course, he had Pemberley, but what did that really mean? He was miserable, and alone, and nothing in England could change that. So, on a whim, he had taken the first job he had been offered and bought a last-minute ticket to Boston (even though it practically cost his right arm).

The job itself was the kind of thing Darcy would have normally shied from. It was “discreet government work”, as the so-called gentleman described. It was spy work. 

The entire notion was so dishonorable, Darcy almost dismissed it out of hand. Then the man shrewdly mentioned Darcy would not only be handsomely compensated, Pemberley would be taken care of in his absence, and that the work be completely safe, and he wouldn’t have to deceive anyone excessively. Reluctantly, Darcy agreed. What did he have to lose?

His assignment was fairly simple. Darcy was to pose as himself: a wealthy British loyalist who had just travelled to America. Except, he was to pretend he was switching sides. He would find any underground organizations that were rumored to be found in the cities, and collect any information he could find. There were other spies, more accomplished ones, that would be doing similar tasks, but with completely fabricated identities. The superiors would then compare Darcy’s information with that of the spies, to find out just how lax the security in the colonies might be to outsiders. Darcy simply had to send letters every few days, detailing any suspicious characters or places. 

He was traveling with Bingley, who, other than being his close friend, was also his cover. Bingley, of course, had absolutely no idea of his friend’s true intentions for the trip, only that he was a very busy man doing business. 

There would be no risk of suspicion, because Darcy wasn’t doing anything wrong! He was simply another person, joining a radical group without any real conviction. He was one in a million.

Yet he could not disguise his own confusion at entering Boston harbor. The people here were different; coarser, more forward. More up-front about their beliefs. It would almost be endearing if it wasn’t so tedious.

Darcy sighed and adjusted his cravat. Currently, he was standing in front of the mirror in his Netherfield room. It was a nice room, he supposed. For the colonies. 

That night he was expected to attend a neighborhood assembly, one given by Sir William Lucas (a rumored British turncoat). Darcy wondered if he would have to give the pretense of enjoying himself to get close to the man. He shuddered, and contented himself by recalling that he was only to act as he would back in England. Thankfully, that meant not engaging in small talk.

Bingley’s voice rang up from the stairwell. 

“Darcy! Are you still up there preening? Even Caroline’s finished by now! At this rate we might not get there at all!

“I might not be opposed to that,” Darcy growled to himself. 

Coming to the colonies had inflamed Bingley’s outspoken tendencies, and they had not been there a day in entirety! Darcy shuddered to think how living here permanently would affect his mild-mannered friend. On the other hand however, it did seem to make him more confident. 

He walked out of the door at his leisure, heedless of Bingley’s teasing remarks. He was not going to enjoy himself at this little.. little  _ country  _ gala, so he might as well prolong his arrival as much as possible. Sir William Lucas was his main mission right now, but surely he could wait a half hour. Darcy was truly NOT looking forward to tonight.

And although his expectations were rather low to begin with, over the course of the night, only once were they met and surpassed. And he wasn’t entirely sure the young lady who achieved this meant to, nor did he wish her to. Indeed, he hadn’t even expected to see her again. 

That was why it was such a shock to come face to face with the strange, beautiful woman from the pub, and an even larger shock that Darcy was actually pleased to see her.


	5. My, those Lucases are Something, Aren’t they?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part one of the Meryton assembly. Introducing Charlotte Lucas and her father, Sir William. Am already typing up the next chapter ;)

Elizabeth’s night at the Meryton assembly was going splendidly. She liked that word.  _ Splendidly.  _ It most certainly suited her mood; that night, she felt simply  _ splendid.  _

She was in her element in Meryton. She knew everything about everyone, and navigated the ballroom with the easy grace of a sea otter. Compounding that simile was her dark brown curls and pale seafoam dress. The maid had said she looked ‘a vision!’, and though Elizabeth knew she was exaggerating, she couldn’t help but be flattered by the compliment. She took it in stride. Tonight, she could use all the self-confidence she could muster.

Her best friend, Miss Charlotte Lucas, met her at the entrance to the ball. Charlotte was a remarkably clever woman (born ahead of her time, as Elizabeth liked to say). However, she was rather plain to look at… but she used her unmemorable looks to her advantage in quite.. a  _ memorable _ way.

You see, after Elizabeth had been permitted to join the Meryton faction of the Sons of Liberty, she had persuaded Mr. Greene (who now regarded her as his prized pupil in regards to espionage), to allow Charlotte Lucas her own position. Charlotte’s job was mostly eavesdropping and collecting information when she was being (for lack of a better word) ignored at parties. She was the revolution’s very own throned wallflower. 

Also, because Elizabeth and Charlotte (as young, unmarried ladies) were more present in society than many other revolutionaries, it also fell to them to help along new members with the joining process. Not getting them to be spies, of course, but simply to spread more awareness about the cause. Usually though, there were hardly any new faces in Meryton society, and, even if there were, they were never interested in radicalized politics.

However, after Elizabeth followed Mr. Darcy into the hornet’s nest for Boston politics (discreetly disguised as a drinking house, of course), she had given Charlotte the heads up that this fellow (along with the rest of the Netherfield party, by extension) might be one they should keep their eyes on. 

So when the Netherfield party entered the assembly (their arrival being markedly later than another of the other guests), Elizabeth sipped her wine with her ring finger raised. The signal for close attachment.

Charlotte understood perfectly and immediately; she quickly steered her good-natured (yet oblivious and often bumbling) father towards the newcomers to make introductions. 

Sir William Lucas fancied himself a political figure in the Meryton community. Meryton, however, disagreed.

But, as Sir William HAD been very.. ah,  _ vocal  _ about his revolutionary preferences, the ACTUAL Sons of Liberty used him as.. almost… a decoy, would perhaps be the best word. Charlotte would of course trail behind, just in case there were people who were actually interested (and welcome) in the organization.

“Aah! Gentleman, welcome, welcome! I trust your journey overseas was pleasant?”

The ginger man, Bingley laughed as he shook Sir William’s outstretched hand. “Is it that obvious we were new, sir?”

“Oh, undoubtedly NOT, young man, you needn’t be concerned, but, you see, news travels wickedly fast here in Meryton.”

“Well I look forward to being in the loop,” Bingley said with a winning smile.

After basic introductions were made (and Miss Bingley and the Hursts scurried off to some distant corner to drink and gossip), Elizabeth allowed herself to briefly glance at Mr. Darcy’s face— a risky move, as it draws attention to one’s self— but one that ultimately paid off when her suspicions were confirmed. He was staring at her.

The gentleman quickly looked away and began speaking to Sir William— the first she’d heard him speak to the man, and in a decidedly hostile manner.

“Will our foreign status be a cause for **concern,** sir?”

Even across the room, Elizabeth could see Sir William pale under Mr. Darcy’s icy stare. She turned her head away, but continued to watch the exchange in her peripheral vision.

“Oh, nononono,” the poor man backtracked, sweating, “English, ah, gentlefolk, are quite welcome here! In Meryton. And, everywhere else! O-of course, what with the tensions, officers might.. uh, ruffle a few feathers, but politics, I assure you gentleman, are not something we take an eager interest in.”

During his speech, Sir William had begun to relax a bit more. Now, he had regained enough jovial spirit to lean forward most indiscreetly, whispering (loudly enough for Elizabeth to hear), “At least, we don’t discuss it in the ballroom. In small gatherings among friends however…” 

He trailed off, and winked exaggeratedly. Elizabeth sniggered into her wine. She thought she saw Darcy raise an eyebrow.

“Oh? Care to elaborate, sir?” He asked, his voice obviously feigning disinterest.

Sir William was about to respond most animatedly, when Charlotte (still standing behind him, completely forgotten) politely cleared her throat.

“What? Oh. OH! Forgive me, my dear.”

Charlotte nodded understandingly, the picture of poise and grace, and Elizabeth could tell she was suppressing a wry smile. Her father was as susceptible as anyone else to Charlotte’s social invisibility. 

“Gentleman,” Sir William said, smiling, “if I may present my… uh, my..,” he struggled to think of an adjective, and it was all Elizabeth could do to keep from laughing. Finally, the man gave up. “My daughter, Miss Charlotte Lucas.”

“A pleasure,” Charlotte said meekly, averting her eyes as she dipped a shallow curtsy. Elizabeth grinned again, hiding the expression behind her cup. Charlotte really was perfect for the part of the timid, forgettable country girl, and she had no problem playing it up.

“Oh but the pleasure is all ours, I’m sure!” Mr. Bingley interjected. He bowed over Charlotte’s hand and grinned up at her.

Charlotte blushed prettily, and Elizabeth noted with contented affection that her friend’s flattered expression was not ENTIRELY fabricated.

“I simply cannot wait to meet my new neighbors!”

Charlotte may have wilted a little at the unintentional anonymity this statement gave her, but she bounced back quickly, seeing the opportunity in his words.

“If you are so inclined sir, then you must meet my brothers! I am sure they would be delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“Then by all means, Miss Lucas,” Mr. Bingley said with an easy smile, offering his arm even though he would have no idea where he was going.

Charlotte took it anyway with a detached smile and a quick glance over her shoulder, and led the affable man away across the ballroom. Elizabeth noticed that she stumbled slightly to her left as she did so.

A misstep. One of their signals. That meant a cover had been blown. A misstep to the left. Go that way.

Elizabeth leisurely set her cup down, and glided around the table, purposefully taking a path that wove around her neighbors to make sure she wasn’t being followed, making her way to the left of the room. 

Against all organization protocol, Elizabeth risked a glance back, to see just what had tipped Charlotte off. Immediately she saw it. Or rather, saw him. Mr. Darcy was staring right at her.


	6. Games of Cat and Mouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth speak at the Merton ball. Conversation is simply psychological warfare, but with more bowing (and some blushing? Why was he blushing?).  
> Very long chapter this time, almost twice my usual, but I couldn’t cut the dialogue. Enjoy! :)

Elizabeth quickly broke away from his gaze and quickened her pace.  _ Had he caught her listening to his conversation? Surely she had been more subtle than that.  _ Or maybe he was just seeking her out because they had met previously? He did seem rather awkward, which was a trait sure to be inflamed by a party full of strangers.

As Elizabeth made her way around the room, she chastised herself for her rash decision. _WHY_ _had she wanted to make herself known to him?_ To play cat and mouse, she supposed.

But she should have known better than to presume the man’s deductive abilities. Most likely, he had already singled her out as a suspicious character. Despite this, Elizabeth still felt the risk had almost been worth it to catch the imperious man off his guard. She had hoped that by buying him a drink and chatting amiably, she would be laying the groundwork to build trust. Then she just HAD to go and ruin it by sending him a message via Mr. Rutherford. 

_ “Welcome to America, Fitzwilliam.” _

There were many, many layers to that simple simple message. Elizabeth was entirely unsure if she hoped Mr. Darcy had been able to decipher it all.

The words themselves were friendly, and the use of his Christian name left one with the impression that they were intimate friends, or would be soon. But by calling the place they were in America had served to remind the British man that he was an outsider; that he was out of his depth, and in these waters, there be dragons. He was on her turf now, and she expected him to play by her rules.

As daring as this may have been to say to someone she had just met, Elizabeth had taken it a step further with his name. She had called him Fitzwilliam. The man had ONLY introduced himself as Mr. Darcy. She was intentionally revealing that she had more to reveal, which was, essentially, one of the worst things a spy could do. But ooohh, she hadn't been able to resist the temptation. That message really was all cat and mouse.

Yet. He was watching her. Maybe he wasn’t so thick-headed as their first ‘conversation’ implied. That was enough to give Elizabeth pause. If she truly had underestimated him and he had unearthed her motives so quickly, she would have to reconsider who among them was the cat and who was the mouse.

She smiled to herself. Maybe she wasn’t a cat, but a man. And with Darcy as her mouse, together their best laid plans  _ most certainly  _ would go awry. Elizabeth laughed softly to herself; not even opening her mouth, but just allowing her shoulders to convulse with mirth. She was so lost in those pleasant thoughts of wordplay that she bumped into the very man Charlotte had discreetly warned her about.

“Oh! Mr. Darcy!”

“Miss Bennet!” He said, with an almost..  _ guilty? _ expression on his regal face. His cheeks burned crimson as he made a hasty bow over her hand. 

He looked ruffled, though Elizabeth would have though SHE should be the one among them to be discombobulated. After all, she had been caught unawares, and he should have easily seen her coming. Yet he seemed… ill at ease. He seemed to be the kind of man to mask his emotions, but Elizabeth liked to think she could see through that sort of thing. Little details alluded to his discomfort. The tightness in his shoulders. His stiff posture and rigid knees. The faint blush that spread over his cheeks and under his collar. The way his hands were clasped behind his back, Elizabeth would have bet money the knuckles were white with tension. He appeared to almost be.. sweating? By God, what could have made him so nervous?

Then Elizabeth realized that her face had fallen into an intense expression, one that often put people on edge. Her smile had melted into a thin line of lips, her forehead and cheeks were slackened, and her eyes were most certainly sharp and glittering. 

With some effort, Elizabeth pulled her grin back onto her face, and tried to reassume the demeanor of an intelligent yet innocent country Miss.

“Well, this is a delight, isn’t it? Has the neighborhood been to your liking, sir?”

“Seeing as I have only dwelt in it a matter of hours, I fail to see what preference I can claim.”

“Perhaps,” she said, her grin became real as it crinkled her eyes, “but for the sake of conversation you could pretend.”

“I could not,” Mr. Darcy defended, his posture becoming even more stiff (defensive, Elizabeth noted). “Disguise of every kind is my abhorrence.”

“Every kind?”

“Yes, that is what I said.”

“Well… I can think of at least four different disguises both you and I don unquestionably at least every few months.”

“Oh?” Darcy asked, his curious piqued, “and what might some examples be?”

“Conversing with relative strangers. Whether we know it or not, we are never our genuine selves at first.”

Darcy frowned. He would have liked to disagree, but he couldn’t find fault with her logic. He was well aware of his cold exterior at social events. 

“And, sir, if I may be so blunt, a little disguise can be beneficial on occasion,” Elizabeth said meaningfully.

“How so, Miss Bennet?”

“If you do not wish to hurt someone’s feelings. If you do not wish to be seen as something you are not. If you DO wish to be seen as something you are not. For example, sir, in certain circles of Meryton society, you might wish to disguise that accent of yours. It could lead to trouble, in the wrong company.”

Darcy leaned forward. “And who, pray tell, would the wrong company be, Miss Bennet?”

_ Alright,  _ Elizabeth thought,  _ showtime.  _

She giggled, and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “I really shouldn’t say…,” she murmured smilingly, eyes on the room instead of on the gentleman next to her, “but there are some men among us who think differently from.. oh, how shall I put this.. you.”

“Would you happen to know any of these men?”

“Yes sir, I believe I may know a few such people,” she said, looking down at her fingernails as if the conversation had turned boring, “A few of our neighbors, though they tend to be rather dull and discreet. My cousin, Elijah, was less dull, but he is regrettably absent from many social endeavors.”

“Hm,” Darcy said with disinterest.

“Why do you ask after them, sir?”

Darcy started, and Elizabeth kept his gaze steadily, propping up her green eyes to look wide and innocent. “I, uh, simply.. wish to be acquainted with the truth of Meryton, Miss. The good... and the bad.”

_ Good answer,  _ she thought with a real grin.  _ Vague enough, yet believable. I like this one.  _ He was smarter than she had given credit for. That meant she would have to play down her own intelligence more than she had anticipated.

“I’m sorry if my answers are inadequate then sir,” Elizabeth said, dropping her chin, “The truth of Meryton is something I myself am not privy to as much as I would like.”

“However,” she added after an intentional pause, “I do know the men often leave each other little papers.. in the library. I found one, once. Dull little drabbles— I could not make out a word of it! Must have been in a code of some sort.”

Darcy was desperately trying to hide his excitement as Elizabeth hid a smile. This was going to be too easy. Swallowing her pride, she giggled like Lydia might, and was rewarded with an appraising look. Like he was rethinking his opinion of her.  _ Good. He was off her trail. _

“Let us not talk of droll topics, though, Mr. Darcy. Tell me about England! I do wish to visit someday, when the tensions decrease.”

He cleared his throat. “England was, um, lovely. Rained a fair bit more, though. People were more reserved, there.” He glared around the room and Elizabeth felt a twinge of indignation. Was he REALLY judging her family and friends IN FRONT OF HER?

“Whatever can you mean?” She asked in her most unoffending tone. Of course, Mr. Darcy took offense.

“I do not care to discuss it.”

“I wonder why you brought it up then.”

Mr. Darcy looked at her sharply, surprised, and Elizabeth understood her mistake. She was being too quick and precise. She needed to dumb it down a little, just to be safe.

He started before her though, saying, “I brought it up because you asked, madam.”

She laughed, though it was higher and shinier than her normal chuckles. “You mistook my intentions, sir! I simply was inquiring after the fashion and the history. England does have such a long, articulate history.”

“Technically, the history of the colonies are included in that, so it shouldn’t be such a novelty for you.”

Her green eyes flashed. “Technically, sir, all histories are one in the same, if you go far enough back. It all depends where one tows the line.”

Darcy had the face of someone who looked like they were about to snort if they hadn’t been so displeased. Elizabeth’s temper flared, and she tried to tamp it down. This man was just… ugh! Insufferable!

“I believe the line is towed at the formation of monarchy; the separation of classes is a sure place to find more.. polished society,” he sniffed. Elizabeth gave up being an idiot, just for a moment.

“Do you mean the caste system, Mr. Darcy? Because if so I do not believe that is a good place to find polished society. The kings took mistresses and the mistresses took their money. The serfs were worked to death and death worked quickly.  _ Polished _ is hardly the right word for history, sir.”

His eyes were glaring, and Elizabeth wondered if they were always this darkly handsome, in a way. Indeed, the man would have been quite attractive if his manners weren’t so repulsive.

“It is my firm belief,” he said, icily, “that the word  _ polished  _ is used ubiquitously and undeservingly.” He looked around the room, and Elizabeth all but fumed. 

“Now, I’m afraid I must find my friend. Good day, Miss Bennet.”

“Good day, sir,” Elizabeth replied with as little hatred as she could manage. He quickly turned around and took his leave, saving her the displeasure of looking into his aggravatingly good-looking face again. 

With a sharp smile, she noted that he was making his way to one of the hallways. Looking for the library.  _ He had taken the bait.  _ Oh yes, she was done being a mouse with that man. The cat inside her was ready. A plan forming in her mind and a sly twinkle forming in her eyes, Elizabeth went on the prowl.


	7. Reflections and Self-Congratulations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy thinks about his entrance to the Meryton assembly as he makes his way to the library, and wonders just what he feels for Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Next chapter coming soon. Enjoy!

Darcy grinned to himself as he made his way out of the party and to a back room.  _ Messages in the library.  _ What an obvious thing! He hoped they were between the rumored “Sons of Liberty” and he would not just stumble upon some sort of scandal. That would be truly mortifying. 

Speaking of mortifying… Darcy cringed inwardly at the memory of his entrance to the ball. He had immediately regretted dismissing Bingley’s warning when they had arrived late to function; it left them vulnerable for small talk. Which he had indeed been subjected to at first, but soon his attentions, much to his chagrin, were engaged elsewhere.

Darcy shuddered in pure embarrassment to remember the way his thoughts (and eyes) had been drawn to Miss Elizabeth Bennet almost as soon as he entered the room. Sure, she was his only (in)formal acquaintance, but he could not with good conscious approach her in the ballroom. Not after their decidedly clipped interaction. 

Ohh, but he had wanted to approach her, more than anything. She was a vision that night. 

Mr. Darcy, in all his years at the ton, had, of course, been subjected to conversation with many handsome women —who were all far more eligible than Miss Bennet— but none had captured his attention in quite the same way.

She had been standing by a pillar, with her dress the color of the ocean at springtime. The pale skirts rustled around her heels, and the light lace of her sleeves and neckline made her skin glow a healthy pink. She was different from the ladies at the Ton. Her dress was more modest, her figure most light yet robust, as if she was a Greek priestess that dined on grapes and seasoned pork, rather than the half-starved ladies back home, who appeared to consume nothing at all. She sipped her wine with a slight smile dancing across her features.

Elizabeth had freckles. Darcy hadn’t noticed it before, but she did. A light sprinkling of freckles across her nose accentuated the heady blush of her sculpted cheeks. It was distracting. They traced out constellations, fractured and celestial, across the tantalizing quirk of her lips. The small brown dots were dimly visible on her collarbone, by the edges. Half-hidden by her bodice, the tan, starlike pinpricks seemed to wink at Darcy. They hinted at secrets hidden just out of Darcy’s reach. They whispered of more. As if under the neckline, the smatterings of freckles continued to swirl in their delightful patterns over her bare, milky shoulders. 

Darcy longed to see them, to see them all.. to trace out the markings on her face, her hands, her chest, running his fingers over her bare skin, pressing his lips to the places those dots congregated in effervescent fractals, kissing along her neckline, tasting her sweet sweat and gauzy skin, lapping at her creamy, freckled flesh until she was moaning his name in that soft, laughing, lilting voice of hers…

“Darcy!”

He blinked, and the vision was gone. His breeches felt remarkably tighter than they had been not five minutes ago. He flushed, put all thoughts of the woman out of his head, and turned back to his friend, who was now looking at him strangely. 

“I’m sorry, Bingley, I was.. ahm, simply wool gathering. So.. what did you require of me?”

“Nothing whatsoever, I simply wanted to make the proper introductions between you and Sir William Lucas.”

Darcy’s good breeding had taken over at that point, and he had bowed and nodded and made a valiant attempt not to let his thoughts show to the rest of the room. When he glanced at Elizabeth again, her green eyes, which were made a deep, blazing emerald by the pale nature of her dress, were fixed on him. 

_ On God’s green earth, WHAT WAS HE DOING?!  _ Staring openly at a lady he had BARELY met, thinking about what she would look like with.. with her…  _ with her clothes off! _

Sir William made some remark about being new to town, and Darcy had interjected snappishly, asking if their nationality would be a problem. It did have the desired effect— Sir William, in his haste to not offend, spoke extensively about welcome they were— though Darcy felt a little guilt afterward. The poor man may be a member of an underground rebellion, but to Darcy he just seemed a harmless old fool. Maybe even a likable one, if Darcy ever spent significant time in his presence (which he doubted he would). 

Then, to make matters worse, he had bumped into the very lady his mind had been dwelling on with such.. such… such  _ fervor _ . Darcy was sure his blush reached the roots of his hair. He had been so flustered by the lady’s appearance, that it almost slipped his notice when she provided him with the tidbit about the library. 

Apparently, the lady’s beauty was concealing a great deal of stupidity, if she let slip something so vital in such a flippant manner. 

Darcy grimaced sheepishly to himself, chagrinned. He could not deny he was attracted to the young woman.  _ That was obvious enough to anyone who stared too hard at his breeches that night.  _ Simply thinking that, Darcy flushed again, and ducked his head as he entered a new hallway. 

Even if the woman was brainless as a sheep, he shouldn’t be thinking about her like that. It simply wasn’t his way. She was a lady, a gentleman’s daughter, and deserved to be treated as such. 

Besides, there was a.. a certain  _ spark  _ that had ignited when Darcy’s disdain had bled through (what he thought to be) his balanced demeanor. Something that reminded him he was there as a spy, not for pleasure. Something intriguing, something forbidden. There was a fire— a passion— in her deep green eyes that made Darcy rethink everything. Then it was gone, snuffed out by an irritated giggle. It was strange how varied her laughs were. Sometimes, they were loud and rich with sincerity, and others they were nails on stone. He didn’t quite know why. 

He shook his head. He didn’t HAVE to dwell on her anymore. She had given him the lead he had wanted, and that was enough. Darcy now had no more reason to think of the country enigma, Elizabeth Bennet. She was of no importance to him. 

Mr. Darcy took a hollow pleasure in this thought, as he finally found the library, and with a gentle shove, pushed open the doors to find the next clue in the case.


	8. Library Discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Darcy finds a few things of interest in the library. Including an odd couch, a painting, a suspicious footman, and a secret message to puzzle out!

Mr. Darcy walked into the room to find it empty. He frowned. He hadn’t known what he had been expecting, but, as he let out all the air in his lungs out is a great WHOOSH, he knew, this wasn’t it.

The library was a large room, and its emptiness felt still and sacred, as if it had been empty for a long time, and Darcy was trespassing somehow by being there. Which, to be fair, he almost was. He shook the thought from his head and looked around, soaking in the scene.

The book collection itself was fairly extensive (something Darcy could appreciate), yet it was embarrassingly clear that a large portion of the novels had not been touched in many years. Cobwebs abounded. A rut was worn into the brownish/reddish rug underfoot, leading to an unwieldy and uncomfortable looking couch. The couch was a beastly excuse for furniture; bright yellow and stiff as a board, and, strangely enough, was facing the wall at an almost lopsided angle. 

Darcy walked the rut to stand by the couch, and faced the wall with some interest. The only discernible decorations were two wall sconces (laiden with 15 years worth of dust) and a rather unfortunate painting of a frilled infant, set in a gilded frame. The toddler had a portly, mousy face and a disgruntled expression, as if it could not wait to get away. The depiction bore a shadow of a resemblance to Miss Charlotte Lucas.

Darcy chuckled. He wondered why the lady had not insisted on the hideous painting’s removal; he knew he would have. He also wondered why her father had allowed the artist to depict the child in such a fashion, and, more importantly, why the couch was facing it, as if it were a point of interest.

Then he noticed, just below the painting, a dent could be found in the wall. Dark red, almost blood-like, stains could be faintly seen around the dent. They were old, half-faded, but unmistakably marked in and X over the dent. Darcy took a mental picture in his mind. It could be some sort of clue.

Suddenly, the creak of a door behind him alerted Darcy to another’s presence in the library. He stood up straight as he turned around to see who it was. 

A servant rushed into the room— young, but not quite a boy— wearing a footman’s uniform and an intensely apprehensive expression. Whether his face displayed excitement or fear, Darcy could not guess, but either way, the young man seemed not to notice him, and made his way across the room.

He quickly stepped to one of the bookshelves, pulled out a dark read book, and thumbed absently through the pages. The young man stopped suddenly, and pulled a slip of paper from his coat pocket, and slipped it discreetly between the pages.

Darcy cleared his throat, and the man nearly jumped out of his skin.

“May I ask what you are doing?”

The young footman, gangly and thin as a rake, snapped to attention and bowed deeply. “P-p-pardon me, s-sir. I just.. I- I was just…”

“I believe you should be back in the main room, attending the guests,” Mr. Darcy said, purposefully making his voice as deep and cold as the ocean. He noticed smugly that the boy shrank back, and his shoulders appeared to be shaking.

“I-indeed, sir. I apologize fo-for the intrusion.” 

The man bowed again, clutching the red book tightly to his scrawny chest. He attempted to leave as quickly as he came.

“Leave the book.”

The man stopped, and looked at Darcy with wide eyes, almost fearful. He grinned weakly, then schooled his expression. With a quick succession of nods, he carefully placed the book on a nightstand next to him. After shooting Darcy one last look, one that Darcy could not place, the footman scurried out of the room.

As soon as he made sure the man had truly left, Darcy eagerly opened the book. A slip of paper fell out. A dark red X marked one of the corners. A series of seemingly random numbers marred the crinkled surface, intermittent across the paper.

Darcy looked at the paper, intently, a smile creeping across his face. Now THIS was what he had secretly craved when he had taken this job! The thrill, the secrecy, the puzzling questions to solve— He would never admit it, but this part of the job delighted Darcy. It made him feel as though his mind was useful for once.

He tilted his head as his joy dissipated when he realized he did not actually know how to break the code. There were no letters on the page. No chance for words. The message read:

> **“13 9 4 14 9 7 8 20. 2 12 1 3 11 2 9 18 4 1 12 12 5 25. 19 15 12 13 5 5 20 9 14 7. 3 15 13 5 2 1 18 5 6 15 15 20.”**

Darcy considered the long string of numbers. Quickly, he grabbed a pen from the table, and used the back of the message to scrawl out the alphabet. He looked at the letters. Then he grinned.

Underneath every letter, he wrote their chronological numbers. Then, he began to decipher the message according to the simplistic system. It worked. Words came to form under his hand, and his smile grew.

The message ultimately spelled out: 

> **“Midnight. Blackbird Alley. SOL Meeting. Come barefoot.”**

SOL. Sons Of Liberty. Darcy pocketed the note, and heading back into the ballroom, a smug look on his face. He would have to leave the party early, of course. He had a midnight engagement to keep. By God, he was a bloody good spy!


	9. Old Friends and Insufferable Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth talks with her footman friend, about their new pal, Darcy. Fun chapter to write. Typing up the next one now! :D

It was all Elizabeth could do to keep from laughing when Mr. Darcy returned to the ballroom. He had this.. look on his face. Like he was the cat that ate the canary, and his whiskers were perfect indeed.  _ Sweet, innocent, little pussycat,  _ Elizabeth thought what would have to be described as a predatory look.  _ If I pull your tail, will you cry, sir? I hope so. Then you won’t be nearly so insufferable. _

Turning away, Elizabeth caught Mr. Hauperly, a friendly footman and fellow member of the organization as he walked past.

“How did it go?” She asked, with some trepidation. His smile soothed her fears.

“Oh, it went perfectly, Benn— I mean, Miss Bennet!” He whispered, though his tone made her certain he would have crowed, had they not been surrounded by people, “He took the bait, and looked so smug about it too!”

“Yes!” Elizabeth said, with an almost unladylike brand of enthusiasm. She checked herself. She must not be too eager.

“You hide the note conspicuously?”

“Yea, an’ I’m sure even a man like him couldn’ta missed it. I do hope you have something good cooked up for that one, Miss. He was a right bugger; snooty as they come. Didn’t even say hello— just ordered me around!”

Elizabeth put a consoling hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Don't worry, Mr. Hauperly. I have something  _ very _ special planned for him, mark my words.”

The footman grinned. His smile was as thin as the rest of him, but she knew the man well enough to tell he was happy. 

“Two things. One, don’t forget to call me Haups at the meeting. Mr. Hauperly sounds too much like my father,” the man shuddered dramatically. Elizabeth laughed, then motioned for him to continue. Mr. Hauperly’s thin face drew into a more serious, more worried expression.

“And you will be careful with him? Make sure ‘e doesn’t do no harm?”

“Oh, do not trouble yourself, I will protect the cause adamantly, and, though he may eventually find our meetings, he will do no harm to the orga—”

“Tha’s not what I meant, Bennet,” Mr. Hauperly interrupted. He looked at her intently, his hazel gaze concerned. “ _ You  _ will be careful with this one, yeh? If anything happened to you—”

This time, it was Elizabeth’s turn to interrupt. “Nothing will happen to me. I’ll be careful. I promise.”

The young man gave her an assessing look, as if he didn’t quite believe her. She felt a little guilty for making him worry so. The young Mr. Hauperly had always been a very good friend, even if they had fallen out of contact ever since his family moved counties. 

They had met through the Sons of Liberty (SoL) and continually saw each other at the inconsistent, yet weekly meetings. There, with Elizabeth dressed as ‘Elijah’ in a scruffy disguise, they simply had known each other as fellow patriots, ‘Bennet’ and ‘Haups’. Hauperly had actually been one of the first people (other than Jane and Charlotte) to know about Elizabeth’s double life. He had kept her secret well.

She trusted Hauperly completely. He was nearly four years her junior, and she thought of him as almost a little brother, in a way. Hauperly was enthralled with her expertise and self-assurance in the world of espionage, and was completely in raptures when this.. this LEGEND had taken him under her wing, and helped train his abilities. He was coached in improvisation, acting, and blending into a room. His footman uniform helped with that last one. His training had served him well; he even now could fool people like Mr. Darcy with Elizabeth’s methods! 

(One of her greatest lessons had been “become what they expect you to be; not what you are”, which meant Elizabeth acted like an empty-headed country Miss, and Hauperly acted a nervous fool! It was really a full-proof method)

Despite this student-pupil esque relationship however, Hauperly (along with many of the other members of SoL) were fiercely protective of Miss Elizabeth. Some old-fashioned part of him still believed the lady needed his protection, that she, despite all evidence otherwise, was still a helpless girl at heart. 

The other, more rational part of Hauperly wanted nothing more than to see that same young lady kick Mr. Darcy’s arse around the room. 

Elizabeth saw her friend’s internal struggle, and, even if she didn’t quite understand all of it, she wanted to make him feel more at ease. She put her hand on his arm. 

“Don’t you worry about me, Haups. I’ll be fine. Trust me.”

She gave him her best smile, which he returned. Then he patted her hand, and, with a weary expression, returned to his place at the edge of the room: duty called. 

Elizabeth let her gaze sweep over the room now, and, by mistake, caught Mr. Darcy staring at her yet again. His brow was furrowed, and his jaw was tight. He looked angry, with his chest puffed out and his shoulders back. If Elizabeth hadn’t known better, she would say he looked… envious? Envious of what.

His gaze flicked briefly from her to Hauperly, standing dutifully in a corner.

Elizabeth hoped she didn’t visibly pale.  _ Oh. Oh.. no. Did he…? Was he…? WAS HE FIGURING IT OUT ALREADY?! Why else would he be looking at Hauperly with that angry a stare?! _

To distract him from uncovering their plot, Elizabeth smiled at him as demurely as she could, and began to dance with the Lucas boy as near to Darcy as she dared. Unfortunately, for some odd reason, he looked even more upset! Puzzling, vexing man!

After a few more dances and a few more tests of endurance from Mr. Darcy’s unfathomable glare, Elizabeth decided it was high time to leave. As early as she dared, she quit the ballroom and made her way to Blackbird alley. With the help of a few local friends (and a few shillings worth of pocket money to bribe them), Blackbird alley was ready for Mr. Darcy.

She couldn’t wait to see how he reacted to  _ this _ .  _ Serves him right,  _ she thought gleefully,  _ insufferable man.  _


	10. Dead End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of Darcy’s night did not go as planned. What happened after he arrived in Blackbird alley. Talk with Bingley afterwards. Hope y’all like this chapter, it made me laugh :)

After the first hour of standing barefoot in the middle of the night in a very QUESTIONABLE looking alleyway, Darcy began to doubt the message’s authenticity. After the third hour, he abandoned hope altogether. He glared down at the slip of paper in his hand, and crumpled it in his fist.

Whoever had led him astray and wasted his time would pay. Dearly. 

As Mr. Darcy tried to make his way out of the alley, he noticed something off about his walking. Looking down, he started. At first, it looked like his bare feet were covered in blood! Upon closer inspection though, there was something else. Something pink.

Gingerly bending down to touch a fingertip to the cobblestone underfoot, Darcy found it sticky and unmistakably pink. It was either glue, or paint, or some combination of the two. And his feet were covered in it.

Darcy leaned his head back and groaned. Of course. Why not? 

Opening his eyes, he saw clearly there was another message written on the wall above him in the same sticky pink.

> **“Pighead :)”**

Darcy would have laughed if he didn’t feel like punching a wall. Of course this had been a trap! It was a fairly harmless one, but still! He should have known finding the Sons of Liberty couldn’t be easy.

Dejected, he walked back to Netherfield. The paint on his feet was beginning to dry, and he was able to scrape some of it off. Most of it though, remained, staining his feet up to his ankles in an insufferably feminine shade. The night was not going very well for Mr. Darcy, to say the least.

To make matters worse, BINGLEY of all people had apparently FOUND the organization! He had even been inviting to their meeting, while Darcy was off skulking in an abandoned alley on the other side of town! It was enough to make you scream. Darcy didn’t, but he wanted to.

Bingley had, of course, been sworn to secrecy, but, of course, he was Bingley. 

“Oh it was astounding, Darce! Truly, amazing! It wasn’t at all like those little newspaper clipping made it out to be— by the way, did you know those drawings were British propaganda all along? Truly eye-opening!”

“Mmhm,” Darcy mumbled, trying to keep his demeanor unaffected as Bingley babbled on. 

“I mean, there were no robes, no candles, no chanting; it felt rather like Cambridge, actually. Somewhat informal, but refined. All literature and debates and political lectures. It HARDLY seemed like an unchristian movement, to tell you the truth.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really!” Bingley answered, unnecessarily enthusiastically, “and by GOD was it enlightening! Did you know the British have been taxing people here on EVERYTHING? Anything you could ever think of— taxed! And they aren’t even allowed in Parliament to alleviate the monetary export! Darcy, I tell you, those filthy rich Brits are something else. Why, if I saw one of their sorry faces here, I’d—”

“Charles,” Darcy interjected calmly. “WE are filthy rich Brits.”

“Oh.” Bingley wilted a little, but bounced back quickly.

“Well, regardless, I still think it’s unfair! An example this diverting chap at the meeting (named Benny or something like that?) used was.. what if Portugal suddenly governed England? And every pound you made, half of it was sent to Portugal— with no compensation whatsoever!”

“That’s absolutely absurd. Portugal has never ruled England, and so it’s monarchy would have no claims on our society.”

“Um, Darce..”

“And, for another thing, if England was indebted to Portugal in some way, the tax would of course be necessary—”

“Darcy, I think—”

“—and I would happily pay it! Portugal would offer us military protection, or supplies, or whatever else their silly little country does, and there would be no cause or secret meetings or revolutions!”

Darcy realized he was on his feet. His chest was heaving, and he was red in the face. He had been shouting. He realized, in his mind, he’d been erasing Bingley and substituting for a certain brunette, with green eyes and freckles on her nose (and, possibly, in his imagination, a fiery temper and less modest clothing). He blinked, and the illusion was gone. He sat back down and crossed his legs.

Bingley looked pained. “I think you got lost in the metaphor there, ole chap.”

Darcy tried to regain control of his breathing as he straightened his lapels. He ran a hand through his unruly curls and wondered what was happening to his.  _ America,  _ he thought with disdain.

“Yes..,” he finally breathed in a defeated tone, “Yes, I suppose I did.”

Bingley was still looking at him with a half pitying, half pitiful, expression that one would expect to see on an innocent pup, instead of on a fully grown man with a Cambridge education. Darcy wondered if he was waiting for an apology. He kept him waiting.

Eventually, Darcy coughed into his elbow, glanced at his friend, then quickly away again.

“It is far past midnight, and I fear I am rather tired. I… am not in my right mind at the moment.” He paused, reflecting on how true that statement really was. He then shook his head violently, like a dog casting off water.

“Goodnight, Bingley.”

If there had been a response before Darcy quit the room, bounded up at the stairs, and flung himself (fully clothed) into bed before yelling out his frustrations at ladies and lowlifes alike, into the thickest, most muffling pillow he could find, then Darcy didn’t hear it.


	11. Thoughts Led Astray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is yet another Darcy view, plus another chat with Bingley. I just like the banter tbh. Will post more soon! (This is a longish chapter btw) :)

Darcy slept until noon the next day, and it felt like he was still sleeping when he got up. The hours flew by. He was still adjusting to the colony sleep schedule— getting up early for social events and doing mischief long into the night. This conclusion may or may not be prejudiced by the fact that he was still scrubbing pink from between his toes every night.

Thankfully though, he was not coerced into any more balls or teas or really, any social events whatsoever. For that at least, he was grateful. Darcy did, however, catch more than one servant suppressing a smile when he walked past, looking pointedly away from his face and down at the great man’s feet. Darcy swore he would never trust a footman again. 

His one consolation was that Bingley knew— FOR SURE— when and where the Sons of Liberty would meet again. Apparently, he had made a lasting impression, and was invited back. And Bingley had agreed to take his friend with him this time, even if it had taken a little… convincing.

When Darcy had first suggested the idea, his friend had laughed so hard, ale came out of his nose. Darcy patted him awkwardly on the back as Bingley heaved with spluttered coughs and laughter.

“What,” he eventually choked out, “the HELL did you say?!”

Darcy squirmed, grimacing, and sunk a little lower in the cushions. He mumbled something into his coat collar.

“Sorry Darce, what was that?”

“I said, I wanted to.. accompany you to the.. the Sons of Liberty meeting.”

Bingley abruptly stopped laughing. “You’re serious,” he said. It wasn’t really a question, but Darcy answered it anyway.

“I am.. going to be staying here a while, it seems. So, if I am to be subjected to their…,” he swallowed the unfortunate adjectives that came to mind and plowed on, “ _ ideals,  _ I should at least TRY to understand them. Who knows, I might even… learn something.” He tried to arrange his face in a pleasant, open manner, but it came out as a pained grimace.

Bingley shied away from him, clearly uncomfortable as he trailed a finger around the lip of his glass. “I don’t know, Darce…”

“You said it was much akin to Cambridge, did you not, Bingley? What with the lectures and debates and all that? And, correct me if I am mistaken, but did I not excel at debating back at Cambridge?”

“Yes, but you also made a professor cry.”

“Dr. Hayes was a pansy.”

“True.”

Bingley sighed, and, crossing his arms, gave Mr. Darcy a searching glance. “Will you be courteous to the members? And open-minded of their opinions? Answer me honestly, Darcy.”

Darcy smiled, and hoped it didn’t show too many teeth. “I will try.”

Reluctantly, Bingley raised his glass before tipping it back. Darcy’s smile became a bit more genuine. The two men sat for a few minutes, each left pondering their own thoughts.

“You know, you really did surprise me there,” Bingley chuckled quietly, out of the blue.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Just… you! You’ve been avoiding strangers like the Black Death ever since we got here, and then the FIRST and ONLY social event you ask to be including in is a semi-political party that, just the other night, you seemed quite firmly and diametrically opposed to!”

“Was not,” Darcy mumbled childishly.

“Was too,” Bingley mumbled back. Darcy shrugged. Bingley grinned. They both took a drink.

Bingley chuckled again. Darcy looked over, and his friend answered the silent question, a smile fixed firmly on his face. His cheeks were flushed with quiet mirth and alcohol.

“I’m more surprised that you asked to go to THAT event, rather than.. something else. In the pretense of slashing dishonesty, I will admit to expecting you of asking to accompany me to call at Longbourn.”

“And why on earth would I do that?” Darcy asked, taking a long drink of his ale.

“Because at the ball you were staring at Miss Elizabeth like you were a monk, deeply regretting his vows.”

Darcy choked on his ale.

He fell forward, elbows on his knees, coughing violently to clear his lungs. When he finally steadied himself and his eyes stopped watering, his face was the color of strawberries.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” the blushing man said in a strangled voice.

Bingley laughed. “Oh come off it, man! You don’t really think I’m  _ THAT blind _ , do you? Your tongue just about fell out of your mouth whenever she passed by!”

Darcy hadn’t thought his face could get any more red. He was wrong. 

Bingley went on to detail every time Darcy had looked AT Elizabeth, looked around FOR Elizabeth, or looked up when her name was mentioned in passing. It was… a formidably lengthy catalogue. It didn’t help that Bingley had recently acquired the talent of waggling his eyebrows, and did so at every opportunity, thoroughly flustering his friend.

By the time Darcy finished his drink, he was well and truly humiliated. He set the now empty glass down with a resounding  _ CLANK. _

“Bingley! You are not to speak on this subject any more! I hardly know the poor woman— and I do mean POOR— and here you are, saying.. doing… making lewd assumptions about my feelings for her!”

The ginger looked at him with raised eyebrows. Darcy shifted around in his seat, feeling very uncomfortable.

“Not that— I- I don’t mean that I have  _ feelings _ for her.. I don’t. She is...tolerable to look at, I grant you, but not NEARLY intelligent enough to tempt me. She is.. of no importance to me, whatsoever.”

“Whatever you say,” Bingley replies mildly.

Darcy sat back in his chair. Bingley took another long sip, smiling to himself. Both were again lost in their thoughts, and this time neither was willing to break the silence. 

Bingley’s thoughts went along the lines of: 

_ ‘All teasing aside, maybe I  _ **_should_ ** _ call on Longbourn in the morning. Darcy would not go with me after this though, he would feel too awkward. Was he really enamored with Miss Elizabeth? I was just making a joke, but he seemed dead serious. I wonder if Miss Bennet would think my jokes were funny. She was a beauty, that one. Mmmm. I wonder.. did she like me? I hope she did. Would calling on her be too forward? Do I WANT to be forward? She is very pretty, and polite, and sweet, and agreeable—‘ _

You get the picture.

While Bingley ruminated on is new angel, his brooding friend was less agreeably engaged in his thoughts.

‘ _ Why would Bingley insinuate that I fancied Miss Elizabeth? I wasn’t looking at her THAT much, surely. She is just.. a novelty, that’s it. A passing daydream. Nothing more. I am.. attracted to her, no doubt about that. Her hair is really lovely. Dark, creamy chestnut, coming apart in curls around her ears. It accents her eyes, making them the color of clover in the wind. Her skin is so smooth, so radiant, and looks so soft.. I wonder what it would feel like to touch, to have her touch me… _

**_None of that._ ** _ Not again. She is a siren— yes, that’s what she is. A siren that shall not— indeed, MUST NOT— tempt me to my doom… Good God, I sound like a poetic fool. I can’t believe I’m acting this way. It’s insubordinate. Just  _ **_thinking_ ** _ about a lady in that way is compromising. And she is nothing. She is poor and vulgar and stupid.  _ **_So there._ ** _ She has nothing to offer but beauty, which will undoubtedly fade soon enough, and with it, her hold on me. _

_ Then I will finally be able to focus on the mission. Ah! The mission! Her hold on me is indeed formidable— I almost forgot about the breakthrough I made! After being led on a... a wild goose-chase, I made progress! I’ll join the Sons of Liberty, pretend to be swayed, find their secrets, and report my findings! Then I’ll AT LAST be able to leave this insipid sinkhole, and return to England a hero! No more revolutionaries shouting in the streets! No more servant rebellions! No more so-called “patriots”! No more attending dull parties with borish women laughing at me! No more laughing at me. No more laughing. No more laughing, her smile curving up and around her face. No more laughter that makes me want to smile. No more laughter that makes me want to laugh back, and pepper kisses across her freckled face, want to make her giggle at tickling caresses across her waist, want to make her sigh with pleasure, green eyes looking into mine, sparkling like the Northern Lights and oh so fine… _

“AH!” He was gritting his teeth so hard, he felt a crack.  _ NOT AGAIN.  _ Darcy leapt to his feet, face once again a deep shade of puce. “I am uh, to bed. G-goodnight, Bingley.”

When he received no response, Darcy blinked, and looked at his friend. Bingley was fast asleep on the couch, snoring lightly, holding his glass like a teddy bear. He was smiling in his sleep, and murmuring about angels. Because of course he was.

Darcy sighed, and rubbed at his face. He should be stronger than this. She was nothing to him. So why did his thoughts stray to her constantly? No more. No more thinking. He was going to the Sons of Liberty meeting— find something to occupy his time. He would find their secrets, and then leave the colonies behind forever. And he would not miss anyone. He would not miss her.

Darcy forbid himself to feel anything else for the rest of the night. He had clearly exhausted his emotion privileges.

Soon, he left the room, and his ruminations with it. On his way out, Darcy notified a servant about the master’s odd slumbering place, out of common courtesy. Then he readied himself for bed, counted finances in his head until all thoughts of emerald eyes and freckled smiles had melted away, and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	12. Meeting, Once Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth gets ready for the SoL meeting, and meets a face she had hoped to avoid. Banter and descriptions, mostly. Will post again either today or tomorrow morning. :)

Elizabeth always enjoyed getting ready for the meetings. Her speaking notes and referral documents would be neat and crisp in a folded stack, an unlit candle and a ruby ribbon gracing the topmost paper. 

To be truly prepared however, she had to become a man, which, as it turns out, was easier said than done.

Elizabeth had long since learned that tying down her chest with bandages would not work as well as she had once thought; it left chaffed and aching flesh behind, which was difficult to explain to her family. So to downplay her ‘feminine assests’, she would use a specially-sown cloth wrapped tightly around her shoulders and ribs, and slip a leather bound book down her bodice to give her chest a flattened appearance. 

She would then change into some of her father’s old clothes, left discarded in his closet as if he would return tomorrow. The breeches were rather tight, but breathable. She added to this a black coat and a dark yellow vest, so faded it gave off an almost golden sheen. The coat sufficiently masked any other curves.

Elizabeth’s hair would be partially let down in a simple ponytail, and the rest cleverly braided under a layer of unassuming curls. Jane would assist her with the final touches. Applications of soot and sand to her chin to give the appearance of stubble. A ratty (but immaculately tied) cravat around her neck.

And with that, Elizabeth Bennet was gone, replaced by a spy, a patriot, Liberty’s favorite Son, Elijah.

So it was that Elijah Bennet knocked on the warehouse door at half past ten, slightly late and and slightly cold. The door was heavy against her knuckles, solid. A slot opened, and two familiar piggy eyes, framed by bushy red eyebrows, squinted out.

“Whozat? Wot’re yuh knockin’ on mah door for, yuh bloody street urchin?!”

Elizabeth chuckled. Not giggled. A man would never giggle. So she definitely did not giggle, cover her mouth, and say in a wavering tenor, “Allistor. It’s me.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Sorrah, Bennet.”

The slot shut, and a moment later, the warehouse door swung open to reveal Allistor. All 4’3” and three hundred pounds of him, dressed in grubby overalls and an apologetic scowl.

“You’re, ah, jus’ a bit late, s’all,” the stocky Scotsman explained, moving aside to let her inside.

“Don’t worry about it,” Elizabeth said with a grin, “It’s my own fault.” He grunted in agreement as he moved back to his post.

She strode through the doorway and was greeted with the familiar sight of the warehouse, all dressed up for the meeting like a debutante at her first ball. Long, floor to ceiling curtains were hung intermittently to act as ‘barriers’ between ‘rooms’, interspersed with chairs and couches to show the semblance of society. Carpets spread out like sand on a beach, polluted with footprints and gaps of undecorated floor. Shipping crates lay in haphazard jumbles, discarded reminders that this, despite all appearances was still a storage facility. A table laden with drinks and a modest assortment of breadstuffs looked (as always) half depleted. 

As she walked through the ‘rooms’, Elizabeth greeted her fellow members with a nod and a smile, silently acknowledging whatever phrases of greeting they tossed her way. She found the speakers’ stage (a slightly elevated portion of the floor, lined with dark red carpet) and began shuffling through her papers, as if her talking points weren’t already memorized.

Elizabeth needed to look busy to distract people from the wave of momentary panic that welled up inside her, spilling over into her green eyes. She had just caught sight of someone at the meeting  **she knew** was not there for the complimentary whiskey. Of course, it had only been a matter of time before he had found their meetings, but Elizabeth hadn’t anticipated ‘the matter of time’ to be quite this brief. 

Suddenly, a voice heralded the beginning of the end of her charade. Elizaebth said a quick prayer that her disguise would hold.

“Bennet! There you are!” Elizabeth turned around to steadily smile up into the weather-worn face of Thomas Greene. Not at the people next to him. Nope, her eyes were on Mr. Greene.

“Gentleman,” the gentleman said to the newcomers, who were standing on either side of him, “This is Elijah Bennet, one of the best and brightest of our little organization. Bennet, this is Mr. Charles Bingley and Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.” 

Mr. Greene leaned forward and said, in a teasing, softish, but nevertheless  _ stern  _ tone, “They’re new. Be gentle.”

Elizabeth gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod, and faced the two men as if she had never met them before. She also made certain her voice had dropped an octave before she spoke.

“Hullo there sirs, it’s good to have you here.”

“Good to be here!” Mr. Bingley enthused, taking her hand and shaking it heartily.

Elizabeth turned and reached out her hand to Mr. Darcy, who was staring at her most rudely. Suddenly, he snapped to his senses, and gingerly took her hand, as if touching her was like touching a diseased hog. Elizabeth tried not to squeeze his hand so hard his bones creaked, but alas, it was too tempting. Darcy snatched his hand away as soon and as quickly as propriety would allow, giving Elizabeth the look of a self-richeous schoolboy being introduced to his first strict professor. A little wary, a little resistant. A little intimidated. Elizabeth shot him a wolfish smile.

“Charmed,” she said, in as sincere a voice as she could manage. Darcy just bobbed his head in response. His eyes bored into hers, but she didn’t look away.

“Oh, hold a moment, do you happen to be related to the Bennet sisters?” Mr. Bingley asked, breaking the silence.

“Yes, my they’re my cousins,” Elizabeth said swiftly. “Are you acquainted with them?”

“Ah, well, yes,” Mr. Bingley stammered, blushing slightly, “I had the uhm, the gift of dancing with Miss Jane Bennet last week, at the Meryton Assembly.”

“Oh,” Elizabeth said, arching her eyebrows and glancing him up and down, “I see.”

Bingley smiled weakly, reddening again, and fidgeted with the cuffs of his sleeves. Elizabeth watched him squirm as he tried desperately to puzzle out her intentionally vague response. It was excessively diverting, even if it was poor form for a first encounter. Before long, his friend interjected in to the lull, saving Mr. Bingley any further embarrassment.

“I do not recall seeing  _ you  _ at the assembly, Mr. Bennet?”

Elizabeth glanced up into Mr. Darcy’s unfathomanable dark gaze, a smile in her eyes, though her mouth was set into a thin line. “I happen to live farther inland than my cousins, sir, and only ever make the trip to Meryton on special occasions.”

The man’s handsome face crinkled with piqued curiosity, his regal brow quirking upwards.

“Why are you in the Meryton branch of the organization, yet do not reside in Meryton?”

“Why are you yourself not part of the Meryton branch, yet asking such questions?” Elizabeth shot back with a disarmingly sweet smile.

Mr. Darcy colored at the reprimand, and Bingley raised a hand to smother his laugh. Elizabeth ignored how Mr. Greene rolled his eyes upwards in an affectionate yet exasperated manner. She made her excuses, and went off in search of more amiable conversation. 

She found it with Dappers and some other old friends, laughing and chatting solely about subjects with little to no consequence to ease her nerves. Mr. Darcy’s dark eyes seemed pinned to her as she moved around the room. Dark, glittering, and contemplative. Elizaebth tried to shake off the feeling of acute discomfort that came with the man’s gaze. She was, ultimately, unsuccessful.


	13. Debate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy have their first verbal sparring match. Shortish chapter.

Soon enough however, the chatter stopped, and the Sons of Liberty meeting came to order. Elizabeth strode onto the stage with the confidence of a blackbear, which she only somewhat did not feel. She cracked her knuckles (something that would have been scandalous had she been a lady right now), and grinned out at the sea of upturned faces.

“Alright, alright, alright! My brothers, we are all here tonight for one reason, and one reason only. Knowledge, or more specifically, its pursuit. I am aware that we have some new faces here tonight, so I will reiterate our guidelines for the debates.”

Elizabeth took a brief pause here, and allowed her eyes to sweep over the crowd, looking for points of interest. Bingley looked eager. Darcy looked impassive. Mr. Greene looked encouraging. She continued.

“Here,” she said, meaningfully, “ _ Polite society _ is rubbish. We do not hide from conflict, nor do we back down from our opinions. We are allowed to disagree, as long as you remain unbiased by emotion, and open-minded to others’ ideas. We will discuss laws, taxes, and social stigmas at length. Anything else of that nature that you wish to discuss, we will. Nothing is off limits.”

She let that sink in for a moment before clapping her hands with a resounding finality. “So! Let us begin with the Quartering Acts. Does everyone know them? If you are unfamiliar with their ramifications, please raise your hand.” 

A few hands went up in the crowd, Bingley among them. Elizabeth suspected Darcy was too proud to raise his hand. She nodded, and explained.

“The Quartering Acts are a series of laws that will force— oh, I am sorry. That will  _ encourage  _ families to house and provide for British regiments as they arrive,  _ in droves.  _ The barracks will be our roofs, and we will feed them, clothe them, give the the uptmost care out of our own pockets. This law is—”

“It’s outrageous!” An indignant voice squawked from the crowd.

Elizabeth shot an amusement look at Charles Bingley, who was now shrinking back, mildly mortified at own outburst. 

“Actually, I was going to say this law is insulting, but it is nothing we are not used to. It would be a common trifle,” Elizabeth said, her brow lowering and passion flickering behind her cool fasade, “had it no been for the clause, stating that we must pay a TAX for the  **honor** of obeying the law!”

This time, Bingley wasn’t the only indignant voice in the crowd. A collective groan seemed to be making its way around the room, echoed by every man’s frustrated exhalations. Well.  _ Almost  _ every man.

“And what is so egregious about that?”

Elizabeth’s green eyes narrowed at the curly haired gentleman, standing tall and proud in the centre of the room, arms folded tightly across his chest. ‘ _ Oh ho,  _ Elizabeth thought, ‘ _ so he’s not afraid to be the outsider. Interesting.’  _ Quickly, she recovered and reassumed her previous stance, poised to answer Mr. Darcy’s question with one of her own.

“Would you rather me refrain from the obvious offense of taxation without representation? Or do we need to review the basics of justice to the people?”

Mr. Darcy ignored her and pressed on. “What exactly is so terrible about housing your country’s soldiers? Do you hate the crown so much you would turn away those trying to protect you?”

“Soldiers,” Elizabeth said, slowly, delicately, not QUITE rolling her eyes, “are not saviors, by any margin. Soldiers are not peacekeepers if, BY DEFINITION, they make war. A standing army in a time of peace is not even worth considering, so why should England see her soldiers if she means to protect her people? It is unheard of, and even more so for the presumed enemy to be tasked with their care!”

A few murmurs circulated, heads nodding in agreement. Elizabeth barely noticed. Her eyes were focused on boring a hole in Mr. Darcy’s head. He stared back at her, his expression unfailingly irritating.

“Why would you assume colonists are the enemy?” He asked loudly.

“Why is an enemy necessary if England means to keep the peace?” She challenged sharply.

Expanding her attention back to the crowd, she said, “An influx of soldiers will just raise the already astronomical tensions in America. If things are already heated, adding more wood won’t stop the flame of revolution. This new act could be the match, handed unthinkingly right to us. The time to strike it will follow soon after.”

At this last, somewhat poetic, point, she stepped down from the stage, letting Mr. Greene take the next debate. On her way down Elizabeth caught Mr. Darcy’s piercing gaze. His eyes were a deep, earthy brown, framed with dark lashes and an intense precision that glittered in the reflected lights. Watching him, Elizabeath realized she had yet to see him smile. How sad. But, despite his somber expression, he was (from an objective standpoint) uncommonly handsome. She could not help but flush slightly as he watched her with the unreadable expression of a carved Sphinx, his face sculpted just the same. Yes, he was handsome. All the more pity then, that his pride had already reared its ugly head, so close into their acquaintance.


	14. Running into Him (with Varied Results!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth spends the rest of the night trying to get away from Mr. Darcy. The results vary.   
> Fun chapter, will post again soon! :D

The rest of the meeting passed by at a leisurely pace. Mr. Greene had to disappear part way through, called away by some mysterious business endeavor. Mr. Dapperly almost came to blows over a disagreement with the tavern owner, but was distracted by Mr. Bingley’s stories of Cambridge bar fights (he was never a part of them, but he had witnessed a few). Mr. Darcy continued to stare at her, but Elizabeth had managed to put it out of her mind. 

Darcy hardly spoke the entire meeting (apart from a few verbal sparring matches with her), he just stood in a corner and sulked. Or maybe observed. Could be both. Elizabeth noticed him looking discreetly into crates, trying to discern their contents. Good, people always went for the crates. They were mostly full of fabric and the like, reminding Elizabeth strongly of her uncle’s business, all the way in Philadelphia. 

It was good however, that he was searching in the crates, for a number of reasons. First, it proved Elizabeth’s theory that Mr. Darcy was not just any new member, but one looking for answers. If he was a spy, he was a terrible one. More likely a self-employed spy, would be her guess. Someone who thought they were better than the professionals, and could infiltrate a secret society unnoticed. Ha! Amateur. 

Even so, Elizabeth made sure not to give him any clues. She purposefully talked only to the least important members of the organization, the ones NOT involved in espionage or awareness, and stayed away from all the little hiding places where Allistor stored their documents. Let’s just say the floor was carpeted for a reason.

Elizabeth tried and failed multiple times to get away from Mr. Darcy, but he seemed to be following her. She was struck with the petrifying thought that maybe he had seen through her disguise, but she relaxed quickly after. He would have been much more scandalized, had that been the case. As it was, he simply looked uncomfortable and his silence took on a stoic, stuffy note as the night dragged on. 

Eventually, Elizabeth (thankfully) lost sight of Mr. Darcy, and she was able to breath easily. It was now well past midnight, and the clouds of Boston were interspersed with bluish stars and streaked chimney spoke. She ran a hand along the rough walls of the warehouse, and delighting in the almost-silence. Faint murmurs could be detected from behind curtains on either side of her, a maze of fabric stretching around them, leading the men on a merry chase of maddening turns and teasing laughter. The punch bowl was all but dry. Elizabeth opened her eyes and smacked her lips. Well, she might as well get a cup before it was  _ completely _ dry. 

Elizabeth hurried through the maze, eager to procure the last cup of punch. She was almost running by the time she rounded the second-to-last corner, and crashed right into the man she had been so careful to avoid.

Looking back, it was really a complex series of events that led her into the next moment. 

Mr. Darcy’s gaze was turned sideways, rounding the corner sharply, carelessly, so he hadn’t seen her coming. Elizabeth tried to stop herself a split second before impact, but her momentum carried her forward, crashing into Mr. Darcy’s chest.

They would have fallen in opposite if it wasn’t for Mr. Darcy’s well-meaning reflexes, which were to catch what had hurtled into him, and to steady it. This would have been immeasurably helpful, had he not already been halfway to the floor. His hands caught on either side of her waist, dragging her down the same way as him. His back landed hard against the carpeted floor, and the impact caused his grip to tighten and jump on her body, knocking Elizabeth even more off balance until her hips were pressed into his. 

Thus, they landed, with Mr. Darcy flat on his back, his hands on Elizabeth’s hips and her body pressed against him, knees bent on either side of his thighs, pressing them together in a way that was NOT suited for the Ton, any polite society, or indeed, anywhere besides the mistress’s bedroom.

Elizabeth opened her eyes to find herself in this position, inches away from the man she had been trying so diligently to avoid. His chest was firm and the fabric of his suit soft under her fingers. Mr. Darcy’s face was a shock of strawberry. 

“Eep!” She squeaked, in a most un-masculine manner, and pushed away from his chest, putting her weight behind her so she could sit up. She attempted to rise more, but since she had miscalculated the new placement of her knees, all she succeeded in was wriggling a bit.

The movement and relocation of pressure caused Mr. Darcy’s eyes to fly open wider than she had ever seen, and a strangled groan escaped from his parted lips. His fingers dug into her hips, the nails piercing through the thin fabric of her breeches. Elizabeth felt something, a foreign, substantial shape, move under her, but Mr. Darcy himself lay paralyzed on the floor. 

Quickly, Elizabeth tore herself free from the unflattering embrace, and leapt to her feet. Mr. Darcy looked to be attempting to rise, but only as far as his elbows before staring took the majority of his attention. 

“I am so sorry,” Elizabeth said, forgetting to deepen her voice in her mortification, “Excuse me.”

Mr. Darcy nodded weakly, his eyes flicking briefly over her frame, not meeting her face. Which was good, because Elizabeth was sure her face was redder than they carpet under them. She hurried off, not looking back. She could feel his dark eyes still on her as she left, careful this time, to look before she rounded any corners.


	15. Darcy Collects his Thoughts on the Carpet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> exactly what it says on the tin.

It took Mr. Darcy a few seconds to process what had just happened. The whole night had been a bloody great waste of his time. All the arguments were good and founded on substantial evidence, but he had been in no mind to give them consequence. The one point of interest had been Mr. Elijah Bennet.

The man was slight of build and had a shocking feminine face, had it not been for the stubble. His chest was flat (Darcy was not proud to have checked), yet his voice sounded as if he had not yet finished his childhood. Mr. Elijah also bore an acute resemblance to Miss Elizabeth, thought that could just be that they were cousins. Truly, this man was an enigma!

Also, there had been a.. fire, in his familiar green eyes, that struck Darcy in a way that he really should have been able to discern. The way he spoke, the manner in which he carried himself, was somehow subtly unassuming and completely conscious at the same time.

Darcy had tried to approach Bingley about it, but his friend had just laughed him off, saying, “Really, Darce! You of all people should be aware of how rude you can be when you get suspicious like this!”

“Suspicious like what?” Darcy had asked, unconsciously scanning the room for Bennet, checking over his shoulder.

Bingley just chuckled into his cup. 

After a time, Darcy noticed that Mr. Elijah had left the room. After making sure that none of the crates had any hidden cargo (it had seemed like a good enough guess at the time), he went off to find her. He walked aimlessly through the ‘rooms’, and turned his head for a split second as he rounded a corner.

The next thing he knew, he was flat on the ground, with the person he had been looking for sitting atop his hips. For a moment, Darcy’s mind went black, the only things regestering being the many sensations.

Warm hands on his chest. A Pulse. Heat. Breathing. Smooth cloth under his fingers, grating slightly as someone moved. Moving on top of him. On top of his most sensitive area, which was hurtling towards autonomy as smooth warmth bucked against it. Oh.  _ Oh. _

Suddenly Darcy became very aware of how thin breeches could be, how they clung to every curve of the body, and how heat seemed to radiate from this person’s thighs. This person who, according to the absence of a certain shape, was evidently, female. 

He looked up into the face of Elizabeth Bennet, her body still flushed against his. Oh dear lord.

He barely regestered her adorable little squeak, and the involutary sound he made afterwards, barely felt her scrambling up off of him, barely heard her high-pitched apologies. He only knew she was gone when he was watching her legs walk away.  _ Damnation _ , now he knew why women covered themselves with long skirts down to their ankles. If he had to see this sight every day, feel those long, warm, muscular legs pressed against him  _ every day…  _ It would be too much.

Indeed, it was already too much for him. The throbbing was in danger of becoming so pleasurable it was painful as he involuntarily relived the texture of her thighs as she straddled him. Oh god. He needed to stop this. It seemed his breathing had only escalated since the lady’s departure. Lady. LADY?! What in the blazes was a lady doing here, dressed as a man and spouting off radical ideals?! It was improper in the highest order. It was insubordinate behavior. It was.. it was… 

_ Intriguing _ , he thought, letting all the air in his lungs filter out in one slow breath. He had to distract himself. There was so much he needed to know. Why would Elizabeth Bennet be in the Sons of Liberty? Why would they have let her in? Surely they knew about her. Surely. So why would she need to conceal herself? Why the deception?

A thousand ‘why, why, why’s floated around Darcy’s head as the world seemed to stop spinning. For now, he was able to put the rush of sensation behind him (though, he had the uncomfortable feeling he would revisit the moment many times over the course of the night, and many nights to come), and just focus on this new mystery.

He stretched out on the floor, feeling his limbs crack as if he had been there for centuries. His outstretched fingers brushed over a empty space, and he opened his eyes. Sitting up, Darcy saw one of the carpet’s corners folded upwards, revealing a hole where the next floorboard should be.

He rolled over, and reached down into the hole without thinking. Thankfully, instead of a rat or a scorpion, his fingers brushed against something thin and papery. Darcy hooked his thumb around the thing, and pulled out a folder.  _ Oh ho ho.. interesting…  _

He sat up, hunching away from the doorway so he couldn’t be easily seen. He opened it carefully, and flicked through the pages. It was a list of names and addresses, written in scrawling handwriting. Beside each name was a list of.. abilities? Talents? Activities, more like.

  1. > B, JOHN. 32 Riverway; communication + printing

  2. > C, DENNY. 55 Slinder Road; debate

  3. > R, SAMSON. 24 Parker Drive; propaganda + debate




There were a number of names like that: boring, normal. Easy to decipher. Darcy’s eyes glazed over and he skimmed the page, not quite knowing what he was looking for. Thankfully, he found it. The last name on the page. One of maybe four women.

> 38\. B, ELIZABETH. Longbourne; reconnaissance + undercover work + debate + recruitment + tracking + information + defense + communication

He smiled darkly.  _ Quite an impressive list, “Elijah”,  _ he thought. So, Miss Bennet was a member of the SoL. Why not. She was smarter than he had given credit for; she had nearly fooled him. Nearly.

But now he knew her secret, and, with a little more time and a bit more concrete information, he would make sure the fine-eyed woman would never see the light of day. Darcy was going to put her to justice. Once and for all.


	16. Most Unusual Rumination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane takes ill at Netherfield. Elizabeth walks to see her. Short chapter. More coming soon

There were times when Elizabeth Bennet wished she was adopted. That morning was one of them.

“Jane, my Jane, abed at Netherfield!! What a clever, clever girl! She will catch a husband before the week is out, you take my word for it!”

“Mama,” Elizabeth sighed, resisting the urge to bang her head on the table, “Jane is not off romancing. She is ill to the point of being bedridden! This is not something to celebrate!”

“Oh pish posh,” she huffed, “Jane is fine! People do not die of trifling colds, especially not when there are handsome young suitors about!”

Elizabeth stabbed into her bacon with a fearsome glare. She had hoped that Mr. Bennet’s indisposed status would cause her mother to take some responsibility, but evidently the chance at securing a wealthy son-in-law was too great a temptation to pass up.  _ Poor Jane.  _

She made up her mind. She would go to Netherfield and care for her sister, since APPARENTLY no one else would. She couldn’t very well leave her dearest sibling to the clutches of Miss Bingley and Mr. Darcy. Lord knows what they would try and do to a poor colonist girl marooned in their home. At least she could count on Mr. Bingley to be civil, of that she was sure. 

But Mr. Darcy had seen her at the meeting. And.. either he was more of a poofer than she had thought, or he had instinctively known she was female. She blushed at the thought of his body under hers. She didn’t like how much she had liked the warmth that had pooled inside her when his hands clenched her hips. Heat wafting up off his muscled body, soaking into her skin...

She would not think of this. It was immoral, wantonly, almost. Mr. Darcy was a peacock. A handsome creature, but he was all appearance with no substance.  _ He had certainly been substantial when his..  _ NO! Mr. Darcy was not her concern. He was the enemy! Elizabeth would not allow herself to think about him this way. She would not. 

To help her remember, whenever she would see him, she would think of some… some code word. Something to remind her not to give him any ground. Panther! Sleek and dark, like a panther. Yes, he was a panther. A bumbling, somewhat oblivious panther, but a beast of the jungle. She must treat him with equal amounts caution and bravery. Yes. He was a panther, and she would not make the same mistake again.

Muttering a farewell to her family, Elizabeth pulled on her gloves and bonnet, and headed for the door. She was already off of Longbourne property when she realized she would most likely not need them. She had, however, also brought her SoL journal, in which she kept her notes and scribblings of found information. That was good! While at Netherfield, she might learn something useful! 

Suddenly, she looked up and smiled. It was a beautiful day. The clouds were alabaster streaks across the sky, which was a pale opal, fading to white around the edges. Blue and red feathers were not uncommon, and leaves dotted the ground with splashes of rich oranges and reds, crunching underfoot as Elizabeth strode across the fields. A chilled breeze dashed around her legs, and Elizabeth giggled, gathering her skirts in one hand to hold her bonnet in place with the other. 

The earth squelched under her, and Elizabeth wrinkled her dainty nose at the mud. A thought suddenly struck her: if she looked wild enough, perhaps Mr. Darcy and Miss Bingley would be too shocked and appalled to talk to her! That would be a blessing indeed.

Holding her breath, Elizabeth dropped her skirts into the mud. It stained immediately. Perfect. To accentuate the look, Elizabeth ran her fingers through her hair, mussing it enough so that a few cinnamon curls drifted into her face and tufted around her ears, but leaving enough of it in pins so that she was halfway decent. 

She did not want Mr. Bingley to think ill of her for something so simple as her appearance. She did however, what Mr. Darcy to be struck speechless. The thought of him flustered and sweating made her feel a predatory delight. And the warm pooling feeling between her legs was back. What?! No!

_ Panther. He was a panther.  _ She shook her head, a few more curls drifting loose around her neck. She continued her walk to Netherfield, purposefully keeping her gaze on the sky, her head in the clouds. 

While she walked so carefreely across the cheery new world around her, in the distance, a panther went on the prowl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey yall, you probably noticed already, but my writing schedule is going to be a little more sporadic from now on. I’ll continue to post whenever I can, but since I went back to school, I’ll be a little busier than I was. Nevertheless, Imma finish this fic, and NOT leave it for dead (hopefully). Anyway, love yall, have a wonderful day!   
> \- Vinny 🌺


	17. Stilted Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter. Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth chat on the way to Netherfield. Neither really knows how to act.

It was about half an hour before Elizabeth noticed her predatory friend. By that time, he was almost upon her. Mr. Darcy was coming up fast, taking quick, determined strides, before he came to a halt an appropriate distance away. Elizabeth shuffled her spine into a ramrod shape, and assumed a neutral expression.

“Mr. Darcy,” she acknowledged after a few minutes of silence.

“Miss Elizabeth.” He bowed, shallowly. His eyes were storms of rock and soil. They were trained on hers, and Elizabeth realized just how accurate her code word was.

“I hope you are having a pleasant morning,” Mr. Darcy said, forcing a nod. 

“I am, thank you.”

The silence stretched on. Each eyed the other warily. 

Elizabeth cocked an eyebrow. “Would it.. be too much to ask to see my sister?”

“Not at all.”

He offered her his arm, and she took it. It was thick and strong. She wished it were limp and stringy; it would have made her job much easier. “How do you find Meryton, Mr. Darcy?” She asked, unwilling to endure his obstinance any longer.

Mr. Darcy coughed into his fist. “Very well. Ahm, pleasant, I would say.”

“And what of the streets? I know some directions can be hard to decipher— one might end up lost on an unfavorable side of town. That would indeed be a.. sticky situation.”

His face was stretched into a (forced) expression of calm, and Elizabeth thought it a wonder that his teeth didn’t crack under the stress. “Pardon me, madam, but I do not follow.”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth said archly, “Follow your heart then, do you? If your head is the one that led you so astray, one can hardly give it any trust.”

Mr. Darcy did not respond. He looked at her with a look void of any emotion whatsoever, except for a twinge of color in his cheeks. “I assure you, I follow neither my head nor my heart. I follow my judgement; it has never failed me before.”

Elizabeth said nothing, but her lips were puckered almost into a smile. She was glad she had forsaken the ruse of low intelligence. Mr. Darcy was diverting indeed. She turned away to hide the expression of amusement, but he caught a glimpse before she did so. The flush in his cheeks spread over his nose and reached the tips of his ears. His dark eyes were thunderclouds, swirling with brown dirt and storming with barely controlled fury.

“Does something amuse you, Miss Elizabeth?”

“Simply remembering an anecdote my cousin, Elijah, once recounted. About a bumbling.. Frenchman, who was duped into a glue trap, after he offended the wrong.. bartender. He ended up with glue all over his feet, not even realizing it was a special blend that would swell like balloons after a week or so, if left untreated. It was quite diverting.”

Mr. Darcy first turned red, then pale, then red again. He studied his boots, shifting around slightly as he walked— to Elizabeth’s delight, checking if there was any glue left on him.

“Ah, I apologize Mr. Darcy. We are at the house, I shall not hold captive your company any longer. You are released.”

“Wait, I—”

“Good day, Mr. Darcy!”

“Miss Elizabeth, what about—”

But she was already gone. 

He clutched his hat, and stomped his fist, swearing under his breath in a most ungentlemanlike manner. He glared up after Elizabeth, up the staircase, his lip stuck out like a little boy. He raked a hand through his unruly curls, let out his breath in a huff, and stalked off dejectedly.

From behind a pillar at the top of the stairs, it was all Elizabeth could do to keep from laughing. She had to admit, the panther did seem intelligent, if not very quick to pounce.  _ Quite the handsome beast, _ she thought,  _ when he was flustered. _

She dared not admit to herself just how much she enjoyed teasing him.

And, not so far away, he was trying not to acknoledge how much he had enjoyed being teased.


	18. Deterioration, at its Finest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Darcy is overcome with emotion, and tries to think straight. His mind is plagued with a certain woman he is determined not to give thought to. He fails, on all accounts. Also, ‘AnXiEtY!1!!’ A bit angsty. Longer chapter, will post again relatively soon! ❤️

Mr. Darcy strode into the library, recklessly slamming the door behind him. At least if the servants heard it, they would know better than to disturb him. He walked to the desk, fished out the port Bingley kept there, and poured himself a hearty glass. He normally did not drink during the day, but he was no lightweight, and he needed to dull his senses if he was to battle the.. sensual new guest.

Mr. Darcy downed the liquid in one vicious drink.  _ Damned woman, maddening girl…  _ He took another swallow, slower this time.

_ Her eyes sparkled when she laughed. Like the Northern Lights, shadowed by stars.. Her creamy skin was radiant in the morning light. What would it look like in the evening afterglow.. blushing and slick with steam and sweat... _

Mr. Darcy hurriedly stored the remaining alcohol. Perhaps it hadn’t been such a good idea after all.  _ UGH he wasn’t thinking! He never THOUGHT when he was around her!  _ He flopped down in a chair and held his head in his hands, groaning.

Why did this woman bring out the reckless neophyte in him? He was a Darcy, for God’s sake! He should not be acting like a bumbling schoolboy just because a halfway pretty country chit batted her eyelashes at him! 

His self-flagellation was momentarily interrupted by a daydream of Elizabeth batting her eyelashes at him, smiling coyly, almost seductively… AH! NO! NO, THINK OF SOMETHING ELSE!

Darcy got up and paced the library, his hands roughly tousling his dark curls far beyond the help of a comb. Why was she in his head? What power did this woman hold over him? It was too much! He raised his eyes to he ceiling, his head falling back on his thick neck. 

He wanted her, even now. So badly it burned.

Mr. Darcy ran a hand over his brow. He needed to get more sleep, and drink less. It was waring him down. He was no longer in his right mind. He hadn’t been since he had come to the new world…  _ You haven’t been since you met Elizabeth,  _ his treacherous mind whispered. 

He growled.  _ MISS Elizabeth should not be this important!  _ He shouldn’t think of her as he did! He shouldn’t be wary of what he would say, whether or not it would sound intelligent! He shouldn’t care what she thought of him!

He was just a number to her, Mr. Darcy was sure of it. She was a mercenary harpy, just like the others. She would flirt with him, draw him in and suck him dry. Involuntarily, he let out a different kind of groan at his own choice of words. He basked in the mental image before slapping himself on both sides of his face. He could not do this!

These thoughts, these..  _ visions _ were unfortunate at best, but he was starting to feel they were inching towards sin! He was a man, by God, not a predatory cat in heat! He had not even fulfilled the task he was sent to the new world to do. 

Ah! That was what he could do! He had been sent there for information, and he had gotten sufficient to write a letter! Of course, he would wait to send it until a ship came in headed for London, but he could still start!

Mr. Darcy, eager to begin the letter back to his employers, grabbed a quill and nearly spilled over an ink bottle. He steadied himself. With a calming breath, he started to write.

> Dear Sirs,
> 
> I trust this missive was delivered securely, and it finds you in good health. Meryton is much as was to be expected of a small country town with a few.. exceptions. There is an underground movement that call themselves the ‘Sons of Liberty’. They are more numerous than we thought, and even in this small town, there are at least thirty five participants. More supporters wait in the wings. They do not seem violent, merely mischievous. They are intent on revolution, though they do not seem to be rising up with pitchforks. Simply debating, spreading awareness, and the like. I uncovered a list of names and addresses. If you would prefer that to be enclosed, I will comply, otherwise, I deem it too sensitive information to fall into the wrong hands. 
> 
> Among the list, there were many prominent members of Meryton society, along with numerous young men, and even some women too! The women were concealed through male garments, in a most unladylike manner. She was debating taxes, regulations, laws of that sort. They were not.. violent. On the contrary, she seemed rather intelligent. However, the Sons of Liberty allow women into their ranks, albeit in disguise. I may have uncovered something in some of the Sons; I will keep this correspondence as best I can.
> 
> Regards,
> 
> F.D.

He put the quill down and leaned back, sighing. Darcy was tired. Tired deep in his bones, an aching, crumbling feeling that worked its way through his rib cage, causing his breath the shudder and shake in his throat. He wanted to close his eyes and float away on a dream. He wanted to run away. He wanted to stay here forever. He wanted to have her by his side as he sent her away. 

He wanted to race through the fields barefoot, like he did when he was a boy, tear through the trees and explore new horizons. He wanted to feel the wind in his face, feel his muscles burn, to see her smile light up with autumn afterglow. He wanted to live forever, and die at the same time.

He did none of these things.

Instead, Darcy put his head in his hands, and just tried to breathe. His heart was racing. His pulse pounding a feverish drumbeat in his ears. The walls were spinning. His own voice tore through his head, calling him a worthless failure and a disgrace to his family name. Sweat gathered under his collar. His breath came and went in short, fumbling gasps.

He shot up from the chair, his hands twitching at his sides. He needed the bottle. Now. Where was it? Had he thought to store some in this room?

_ Aha,  _ he thought with a sigh of relief, though cut off by more hyperventilation. His hands shook as he found the bottle marked ‘PRIVATE’, the sweat on his palms nearly making him drop the glass.

He unscrewed the lid, held it up to his nose, and took a deep breath. The smell ensnared his senses, and Darcy lost himself in a world of lavender. He took another deep breath. His nerves began to settle. His rapid breathing started to fade. He concentrated on just breathing in, and out. In, and out. It would all be okay. 

It had been months since he had a spike like that. Well, since he hadn’t suppressed a spike. Since his early teens, Darcy had been plagued with a mysterious affliction to his nerves. It only struck rarely, when he was under great stress. One of the first had come when his mother died, and he had to oversee the funeral. The second had come soon after. Eventually, after the third one left him so out of breath he had swooned like a lady and scared a maid, an apothecary had been summoned.

The doctor had never seen anything like it, but, after contacting his superiors, he had prescribed that the young Master Darcy try to distract himself when the spikes came. He tried everything he could find to distract himself, and after a few torturous months, had found that immersing himself in certain smells and tastes helped a great deal. 

The best combination, he had found, for the most distressing spikes, was a combination of laudanum and lavender, watered down and sometimes splashed with peppermint water. The smell took him back to better days, ones he couldn't quite remember. He hadn’t needed to remember them in years. 

Mr. Darcy replaced the bottle in its hiding place, and staggered back to his seat, feeling faintly lightheaded. He really needed to sleep.

It was the middle of the day, but Darcy really couldn’t bring himself to care. Let the help talk, goddamnit. He was tired of trying to be anything other than what he was. And what he was right now was tired.

Not changing into his nightclothes, but simply stripping down to his breeches and undershirt, Darcy slid into bed. He had drawn the curtains, but light still permeated the room. It reminded him of her. Everything seemed to, nowadays.

As he drifted off to sleep, he allowed his mind to do the same, though it drifted in a different direction. 

_ What was Mis— oh who cared, he could refer to her informally in his mind. What was ELIZABETH doing at Netherfield? Her sister was sick, but surely, that didn’t mean she had to walk all the way there personally, with her hair partially down, and her smile wide, and her eyes brightened excessively by the exertion... _

Darcy briefly tolerated his thoughts to linger on that mental image before dragging them back to the matter at hand.

_ So, she could be a devoted sister. That was plausible. But why drop the act of feigned stupidity in front of him? He knew about her, but did SHE KNOW he knew? He couldn’t say. Did she have an ulterior motive for coming? They were British, after all. They were outsiders here. Maybe she was snooping around for her cause. _

_ Yes, that must be it! Miss Bennet’s illness was a ruse, a ploy, to get Elizabeth secret information! Well, he would see to it she would find nothing. Nothing! And, if he was lucky, he might even glean sufficient evidence to lock her away for her treachery! _

Mr. Darcy allowed himself a small smile as he fell deeper into sleep. It did not reach his eyes, and it soon fell away completely.

His last discernible train of thought was,  _ Yes. That is what I will do. I will catch her, and report her to the authorities. I will have served my queen and country well. Then I will finally be rid of this pest, and everything will go back to normal. _

On that note, Mr. Darcy’s mind finally stopped whirring, and exhaustion overtook him. If his dreams were fringed with melancholy and loneliness, he did not notice it. He did not have time to dwell on such things. He had a job to do.


	19. Fidgety Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mostly fluff. The first evidence Darcy finds that Elizabeth is a spy.

Shadowing Elizabeth Bennet proved easier said than done. Firstly, it had taken almost an hour to find her, in the room next to Miss Bennet’s. She had stood and greeted him, setting aside the book she had found. So suprised was he that Elizabeth was not drinking the blood of children, or whatever else spies do behind enemy lines, he just stood there, staring. Then he fled. The interactions did not improve from there.

Mr. Darcy knew that if he was constantly in the same room as Elizabeth, it would raise some eyebrows. So, he devised a sort of a system. He would inhabit rooms he thought she would visit (such as the library or the kitchen) and direct staff wherever he could, so that he would be saved from any possible small talk. 

Once, he had avoided talking to her by snapping at a footman who hadn’t properly stoked the fire. He had spoken rather harshly, and he felt chagrined at how little the footman deserved it. The poor man had looked like he was about to cry, until Miss Elizabeth had (very improperly) put a hand on his arm and whispered into his ear. Whatever she said, it made the footman smile.

Darcy didn’t know why he had the impulse to dismiss him immediately. It shouldn’t matter who Elizabeth smiled at. He shouldn’t care.

Miss Elizabeth did seem to be on.. friendly terms with the staff. She would call each one by name— even the slaves! Especially the slaves, as it would seem. She held their children and made them smile.She would ask them how their family was, what they were up to, and how she could help. It was unheard of. Sometime after lunch, Mr. Darcy observed her carrying water, an elderly slave trailing behind her, a goofy smile stuck in place. It was scandalous. Was she trying to build good favors with the staff and slaves so she could more easily take over Netherfield when the time arose? He would have to wait and see.

At one point, he had to hide behind a curtain. That was embarrassing. 

Finally though, mid afternoon, he caught her in the act. Darcy had lost sight of her for a minute or two, and during that time, she had slipped into his own private study. He watched her through the keyhole.

Miss Elizabeth walked around the room. She held up her skirts and walked on her tiptoes, gliding silently over the wood floors. Darcy, feeling heat rise to his face, tried to keep his mind off her silk-clad ankle. She took a book off the bookshelf and thumbed through it. Frowning, she replaced it on the shelf and took another. Elizabeth repeated this action a number of times (much to Darcy’s amusement) before moving on to his desk. 

She picked up a paper and tilted it to read his hand. Darcy caught a glimpse of a red wax seal.  _ Oh no.  _ That was the letter he had written this morning. If she read it, Elizabeth would not only know his motives for joining SoL weren’t innocent, but she would know he had found her out!  _ He had to stop this. _

Not thinking, Mr. Darcy burst into the room. He tore off his cravat as he had done back in Cambridge after a long day, and yawned hugely, pretending not to see Elizabeth leap away from his desk as if it had burned her. He blinked, and adopted a look of great surprise.

“Miss Bennet!”

“Mr. Darcy,” she said, dipping into a curtsy, hiding her blush well.

“What…,” he started, struggling to sound indifferent, “T.. to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Ahm.” She fidgeted, looking askance. Darcy cocked an eyebrow, enjoying the moment. 

“Ahh, I was simply, ummm.. looking for a book!” 

“A book,” he repeated, fighting a smile.

“Yesss,” Elizabeth said meekly, “And.. h-here it is!”

She grabbed a novel at random, and held it up to prove her point. Darcy squinted at the title with great amusement.

“You.. were looking for ‘ _ The Housewife’s Guide to Gardening’?” _

Elizabeth flushed. “Y-yes. I like plants,” said she, with great feeling. It was all Darcy could do not to burst out laughing.

“Well. Do not let me stand in your way then, Miss Bennet.”

Bidding him a rushed adieu, Elizabeth fled the room, the Gardening book clutched tightly to her chest. As soon as the door slammed, Darcy allowed himself to laugh, which he did.  _ Good GOD that woman was a terrible spy!  _

_ But,  _ he thought, sobering,  _ at least he knew she WAS a spy. She not only was found impersonating a man, attending radical functions, misleading British citizens, and looking through confidential papers, but lied about it too! _

Somehow, instead of thinking about how he had just caught a spy, and was a National hero, Darcy’s mind was drawn to how she looked when he had entered the room. 

Her hands fluttering like butterflies behind her back. That adorable little stutter. The blush that had crept up from her neck and deepened the freckles that were sprinkled across her collarbone. The way her green eyes widened with shock and fear, Darcy could feel a tug in his chest. He wanted to gather her up in his arms, and hold her close. Feel her breathing diffuse into his neck. Kiss the fear from her eyes. She would never be frightened again. She would be safe in his arms, close to his heart...

Darcy shook his head vigorously. She was not some child who needed protecting! She was a grown woman— a spy! He would not be taken in by her arts and allurements. 

He repeated this mantra to himself all the way through dinner, assuring himself that he was NOT having feelings for Elizabeth Bennet. That would be absolutely absurd. 


	20. Wherever She May Lead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy follows Elizabeth on an excursion. Veeeeery suspicious. Hmmmm. (Longish chapter)

In fact, Mr. Darcy was so absorbed with NOT paying attention to Miss Elizabeth, that he almost missed her  **very** suspicious behavior. It was after dinner (which had been relatively early) and took place in the parlor, where Miss Bingley was reclining and trying to get Mr. Darcy to notice her figure. Elizabeth had much more success, even though she was just reading. Darcy had been tempted to ask her where the gardening book had gone (as she was now diving into the Oydessy), but he restrained himself. He was not talking to her. He was writing a letter. He was NOT going to engage.

“Oh, you write uncommonly fast!”

Mr. Darcy winced inwardly. Evidently, Miss Bingley had forsaken her futile task on the couch, and was now pressing herself into his personal space in an attempt to read his missive. He shifted his shoulder to block her view.

“You are mistaken,” he said coldly, “I write rather slowly.”

He wrote the word ‘THE’ in the space of twenty seconds, just to prove a point. Miss Bingley missed it completely.

“And your lines are so evenly spaced! I wonder, how did your handwriting get so immaculate, sir?”

“I would refrain from answering your question madam, as my handwriting is nothing out of the ordinary.”

Thankfully, Miss Bingley looked a little put out at this. Darcy saw Elizabeth’s eyebrow quirk, and her plump lips press together, wetting them with her tongue to submerge her oncoming smile. Darcy felt a little thrill spark in his stomach that he had been able to amuse her. He almost smiled. Then he remembered that he was supposed to be ignoring her.

“Keeping correspondence is so tedious!” Ugh. Miss Bingley bounced back quickly tonight, it would seem. Her voice was shrill and all too close. “I do not know HOW you manage it, Mr. Darcy! It must be ever so time consuming.”

Darcy resisted rolling his eyes. “How fortunate the task would fall to me then,” he intoned, “We all have our responsibilities.”

Suddenly, he heard a stifled gasp from where Eliz— Miss Elizabeth was sitting. She stood up so quickly, her skirts ruffled like the wind around her feet.

“I apologize,” she said, hurriedly, “I just remembered.. Ah- a correspondence I must keep.”

Darcy barely had time to look up at her strained expression before she took her leave, and the room dimmed in her absence. He snorted, disgusted with himself, that grief welled up inside him whenever she left the room. He turned back to his letter, trying to put Miss Elizabeth out of his mind.

“My,” the other woman said, “how very strange.”

It took all of Darcy’s strength not to bash his head into the desk.

_ ARHUGHHGHFG. WHAT WAS WRONG WITH HIM!? Did he really just almost ignore Miss Elizabeth literally  _ **_rushing from the room_ ** _ to seek  _ **_a mysterious correspondence?!_ ** _ Her hold on him was getting ridiculous. He needed to turn her in SOON. _

“Pardon me,” he said, slowly, carefully, trying not to show that every nerve in his body wanted to run out the door after her, “I feel I am rather fatigued. Good night, Charles. Miss Bingley.”

He didn’t stick around to hear Miss Bingley’s fluttering and squawks of outrage. He didn’t stop to think about how suspicious it would be that Elizabeth and he rushed from the room with vague excuses, and were neither seen by the servants until some time later. He didn’t even take his gloves on the way out. 

He just strode purposefully after the fading silhouette of his lady, determined to follow her, wherever she may lead.

* * *

Apparently, where she led was a dank street on what Mr. Darcy had dubbed ‘the wrong side of town’.

The road could have been cobblestone at one point in history, but it was broken and littered with mud and what looked to be human excrement and vomit.  _ Vile _ . Weeds poked up from in between stones. The stores all had large iron bolts on the doors, and painted over signs without any lettering. Shadowy figures darted around, in and out of corridors. An alley cat hissed at Darcy as he passed by. 

_ What on Earth was Elizabeth doing here?  _ He wondered, squinting ahead at her. She was walking quickly, a hooded shawl pulled up over her head. Her cinnamon curls turned a musky hazel in the fading light. Wisps of it escaped her hood and circled the back of her head like a halo. Under one arm, she carried something bulky that Darcy couldn’t make out. He alternated between picking up his pace and falling back, just to keep her in sight, but not to  **be** seen.

Their footsteps pounded in off-beat synchronization in the gloomy silence. Darcy prayed that she wouldn’t turn around. God was on his side.

Eventually, Elizabeth disappeared from sight, and for a brief moment, Darcy’s felt a jolt of fear that all this had been for nothing. Then she flashed back into sight, the edge of her shawl beckoning him from a squat building on the side of the road. He turned, and followed her. 

The building was dark and rocky and square. Moss clung desperately to the dirty stone walls, the corners fraught with cobwebs. Puddles of indeterminable liquid dotting the ground. 

Mr. Darcy sidestepped them, landing on the balls of his feet. His boots made an unfortunate  _ squeak _ on the stone floor. He winced slightly. Evidently, his polished shoes were not made for espionage. He continued down the dark, stony hallway after Elizabeth, his body hugging the wall. Elizabeth walked purposefully, determinedly. After a while, she stopped in front of a doorway, the room beyond it so completely devoid of light that it looked like a black curtain had been hung in front.

Upon hearing a voice, Darcy ducked quickly out of sight, finding the edge of a nearby alcove a very convenient place.

“Hullo? Whozat?” A scratchy, sandpaper voice asked rather harshly. Darcy bristled at how liberally the voice used aggression while speaking to a lady.

“It’s me.” That was Elizabeth. What was she doing in a place like this?

“And it’s after hours. You know the rules,” Sandpaper responded.

“Please,” she said, almost brokenly, “Please I lost track of time! It won’t happen again.”

The man’s answer was cut off by the sound of a baby crying from beyond the doorway. It wailed needy and desperate. 

When Elizabeth next spoke, her voice held a thread of triumph. “If you let me in, the crying will cease. I guarantee it.”

A deep, sandpaper sigh. “Fine. But don’t give them so much meat next time! ‘S not good to spoil ‘em.”

A shuffling of robes, and then Elizabeth was gone, disappeared into the doorway. Stuffy silence. Darcy didn’t move. His mind was so awhirl with possibilities, there was no way for him to focus on any one. Soon, he didn’t have to. 


	21. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy finds out just what exactly Elizabeth has been up to. After staring truth in the face, its stone cold smile staring back at him, the resolve he’s been so carefully constructing.. just might start to crumble.

About half an hour later, Elizabeth passed his alcove. The bulky object under her arm seemed to bother her much less. Her pace had increased even more.  _ What a phenomenal walker,  _ Darcy thought before reminding himself not to be distracted. He had to figure out what the spy had been doing in this kind of place. 

Taking a breath, a plan coming to him out of the blue, Darcy drew himself up to his full height, and assumed the best scowl he could muster. He practiced saying Rs to himself as he walked determinedly towards the inky doorway, working up his accent.

Stopping in front of the doorway, he came face to face with a short, stubby man in a prison guard’s uniform. The man had a square chin that was sick with stubble, and piggy little eyes that peeked out from the brim of his hat. When he saw Darcy, he snapped to attention.

“Wh-who are you?” The man spluttered, his sandpaper voice rich with accusation, “What’re yuh doing here?”

Mr. Darcy glared at the man, who shrunk back. 

“It doesn’t matter who I am,” Mr. Darcy said, in as angry an American accent as he could muster, “What matters is what the deuce is going on here?”

“Wut?” The man asked, his sandpaper voice coming out like a squeaky hinge, several octaves up. Darcy rolled his eyes forcefully, and huffed.

“The woman. What was she doing here?”

“Who?” The man asked, before realization dawned in his eyes. “OHH. Oh. Her. Well, you see sir, I uh, don’t know her name. People ‘round ‘ere just call ‘er Miss Giver.”

“Miss Giver?”

“Yes sir. I dunno why she does it, nasty work, but she comes ‘round every third like clockwork.”

“What does she do, exactly?” Darcy questioned.

The man looked to be sweating. “Well, uh, she doesn’t do much, really, uh, she.. it’s nothing! Nothing to worry about!.... good day sir.”

The man attempted to close the door (which had been propped open), but Darcy shouldered his way through and cornered the man. 

_ “Tell me,”  _ He hissed. The man gulped. 

“Um, well, she, uh—”

“TELL ME NOW!” Darcy roared, slamming his fist into the wall. It smarted with pain, but had the desired effect.

“Our cells have been afflicted by a sickness as of late, horrible thing really, vomiting and fever and sores on the skin and all that,” the man babbled, his eyes balking in fear, “The Giver comes and gives the sickest food and water, cleans ‘em up. She plays with the children and goes into the cells to care for the ill. Please don’t hurt her, sir, she’s a saint, and I’m helping a saint, so I haven’t done nothin’ wrong please don’t kill me,” he finished with a whimper.

Darcy blinked. “She.. goes into the cells?”

“Well, not the REAL criminals,” the man amended quickly, “just debtors and protestors and petty thieves and untouchables. Nobody who actually hurt anybody.”

“May I see them?”

The man squinted at him. “You want to see the prisoners?”

Darcy looked at him, and the man began nodding vigorously. “Yes. Yes, of course. Right this way, sir.”

The stout, sweaty little man led Darcy down the dank hallway. Iron bars began to line the walls. Darcy glimpsed figured, slumped in corners on stacks of hay and meager-looking benches. There were noises of sickness: whimpers and moans and smothered retching. Some of the figures were too small to be adults. He heard an infant whimper. Darcy felt his heart constrict in his chest. He continued on.

The man stopped at one of the last cells. He rapped his knuckles across the bars, roughly waking a woman sleeping on the ground. 

“Get up!” The man whispered harshly, not so quietly so Darcy couldn’t hear, “We have a visitor! Get your worthless ass up!”

The woman scrambled to her feet. A young boy, no more than eight years old, rushed to her side, limping. Both had hungry faces and wild eyes. Dirt smudged their features. Shadows lined their cheekbones.

“Miss Devore,” the man said, as if presenting a woman of society, “Meet our esteemed guest.”

“Leave us,” Darcy instructed, not taking his eyes off the woman. He heard the man hurry back to his post. He looked at the young woman. She looked back.

“Who are you?” She asked, her raspy voice no louder than a whisper.

“Mr. Darcy. Who are you?”

“Miss Rachel Devore,” she said, “and this is my son, William.”

Mr. Darcy nodded. “Might I be so bold as to ask why you are here?”

The woman hesitated. “I.. I stole some valuables. Gold, jewels. Pawn shop trinkets. I needed to feed my boy. Without the money, they would have taken him away. He needs to be with me,” she said, weakly, her eyes wide and fearful, hazel in the dim light.

“Where is the father?”

The woman’s frightened eyes hardened like molten gold. “My son is better off without him. He was scum.”

Mr. Darcy didn’t need to ask again. Instead, he looked down at the boy, small and thin as a walking stick. One of his feet was twisted the wrong way, but he appeared to be in no pain. In his frail little hands, he held a parcel that gave off the smell of pork and sweet bread. Crumbs decorated the boy’s chapped lips.

“Did Miss El— Miss Giver, give you that?” Darcy asked.

The woman put a protective hand on her son’s shoulder, pulling him away from the bars. “What business do you have with Miss Giver?” She shot back, her voice suddenly reinforced with life born of suspicion. 

“That is none of your concern,” he dismissed, “I simply wish to know what she was doing here.”

“She did nothing wrong. Do not take her away from us— please, she- she’s kind to us.  _ She nursed my son back to life. Miss Giver is an angel,  _ **_you can’t take her away!”_ **

“Miss Devore, I am just—”

“Are you going to take Giver away?” The little boy, William, asked, in a small voice. “Are you like the others?” 

Mr. Darcy felt guilt rise up like bile in the back of his throat.  _ Who was responsible for this? Who had allowed a poor, possibly crippled youth to starve in a prison cell? Was  _ **_this_ ** _ the world he was fighting for? _

He put a hand to his head, as if worried his thoughts would turn acidic and burn a hole through his skull. Then he saw the child still staring, waiting for an answer. Darcy knelt down until he was face-to-face with little William.

“No, I am not..,” he paused, another round of reflex threatened to stop his words, “I will not… I will see that no harm comes to your Giver.”

“Promise?” The little boy asked quietly. His eyes were misty and hopeful, wary and sunken with an aged look for someone so young.

Darcy swallowed thickly. “I promise.”

He barely remembered turning and making his way out of the grimy jail cell. He couldn’t recall threatening the guard, telling him that if he ever, EVER, gave ‘Miss Giver’ trouble again, there would be hell to pay. He didn’t remember stumbling through the streets, too weary and too numb to indulge himself in spirits. 

All he remembered was seeing Miss Elizabeth’s, Miss Giver’s, face from his window after the sun had set. Her melodic smile drifting towards a minor key. Her freckles sliding around tears as she knelt down and prayed for the boy in the cell, the one who needed her. Her green eyes piqued with lost wishes and worthless hope.

All Mr. Darcy remembered, was that the truth was not as clear, nor as kind, as he had hoped it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all! Sorry for the interlude! I might do this again— just disappear for a few days then post in bulk 😅 Anyway, thank you for reading, I’m still going with this fic, don’t worry! But thank you so much for sticking with me 💗 love all of y’all! Drink plenty of water!  
> \- Vinny 🍄


	22. Breaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Darcy, trying to come to terms with how he feels about Elizabeth. Pointless fluff that Ends up bordering on heart-wrenching. Long chapter. Enjoy!

The next morning was an interesting one, to say the least. Mr. Darcy woke up feeling like a ghost. As if he was just going through the motions of his life. Looking in the mirror, he saw the hollow shade in his eyes, the storm brewing behind his irises. Who was he becoming? He was no better than the jailer; he was complicit in this.. this system. What was he even doing? These people were poor, these people were weary! They could hardly feed their children, let alone pay taxes!

Darcy’s breeding kept trying to filter through, his blind patriotism attempting to override his humanity. He was torn between loyalty and morality. And every time he thought about revealing Elizabeth’s status as a traitor, he imagined little William in the jail cell, the look of hope in his eyes distinguished by Darcy’s hand. He felt sick.

He walked through Netherfield in a haze. He realized soon enough that his meddling thoughts were ripping him apart, and he had better not make any destinos until he made up his mind about.. about the Elizabeth situation.  _ Uh oh.  _ Mr. Darcy went into his study and scrambled through his papers with an increasing sense of dread. 

The letter was gone. The one where he had divulged information to his superiors about women in the Sons of Liberty. Had he mentioned Elizabeth by name? Would she be locked up within a fortnight, and starve along with the poor souls in the cell? Was that not what he had wanted, was that not what he had been frightening for? 

Racked with guilt, he sat at his desk, his head in his hands and an empty bottle of port keeping him company. His valet slipped his head in through the study door, and took in the sorry sight of his master.

Robert had always been a soft spoken man, and was no different in his mid-thirties. He had fading charcoal hair, dark oaken skin, and a stringy, lean build to him. His eyes winked a soft hazel from behind heavy lids. He had been Master Darcy’s valet even before he was Master Darcy. Robert had seen the man grow up, seen him go through the hardships of loss and the burdens of a life taken from him. He knew what Fitzwilliam Darcy was like, how he reacted to things. He knew something must have shaken the master pretty bad if he was acting like this. 

He usually would opt to raise Mr. Darcy’s spirits with some well-placed witty comments, or a sincere compliment or two. But he had a feeling Darcy needed something more. Robert had seen the way the master had looked at the kind, freckled girl,  _ what was her name? _ Miss Lizzy, that was it! That was what the maids called her. 

Robert had noticed Mr. Darcy’s pointed attention to the young lady, and frankly, couldn't blame him in the least. The lady was as clever and charming as she was handsome, and she was  _ very  _ handsome. Yes, a moment alone with his lady would do the master good. Robert remembered he had seen her in the library not half an hour ago. He could use that.

Quiet as a mouse, Robert slipped into the study. He positioned himself behind Mr. Darcy’s chair and pointedly cleared his throat.

“Whuh?” The man grunted, raising his head. Meeting his valet’s hazel stare, he had the decency to flush.

“Oh, my apologies Robert. I am just… just…” He trailed off, unsure of how to finish the sentence.  _ Having a mental breakdown? A crisis of faith? Rethinking everything about myself and the society I work to perpetuate?  _ He groaned again.

“I understand, sir,” Robert said graciously, “You have a lot on your mind.”

“Yes,” Mr. Darcy sighed, “I suppose I do.”

Robert licked his lips and cleared his throat again. Deception, even a minor one that was meant well, did not come easily to him. 

“You know,” he started, before stopping to cough into his fist. He began again, hastily, “Th-the library at Netherfield seems to be uh.. quite well stocked, sir.”

Mr. Darcy snorted. “Hardly. Mr. Bingley, amicable as he may be, is no great reader.”

“Ah, yes, well,” Robert chuckled, “I believe you may find his library to be very…. very… a-appealing to your tastes, sir.”

“Is that so? May I ask why?”

“Oh, you know,” he stammered, “ **Books.** And the sort. T-take your mind off… whatever it is that troubles you so.”

Mr. Darcy gave his valet an assessing look. Robert smiled. It came out almost as a grimace. Finally, the great-man-laid-low shrugged. “Why not. I suppose a good novel won’t hurt me.”

“Quite right, sir,” Robert said, relieved. “I’ll leave you to it!” He scurried out of the room before he could mess it up even further. 

Darcy watched him go, his eyebrows climbing towards his ruffled black locks. Robert had never been anything but honest and steadfast in his morality, but something about that interaction put Mr. Darcy off. But, if there was anyone in the world he could trust, it was his valet. With a stifled groan, he eased himself out of the chair and shuffled to the library. His bones felt brittle and dusty. He moved with the careful precision of a man who knows his age, and one wrong step could mean serious injury.

He trusted Robert implicitly, but Darcy entered the library through a back entrace, just in case. When he stepped into the room, he held back a gasp at the sight that awaited him.

The library was quiet and still in the late afternoon. Sunbeams glowed around heavy curtains, but the room itself was dim and lit with intermittent candles. There was a sound of soft breathing and the creaking noise of wood. The only person in the room was Miss Elizabeth Bennet, asleep on a couch.

Her legs were curled up her chest, her feet bare as they sprawled out next to her. A pair of slippers were stacked on a discarded novel next to her. Elizabeth’s head rested to the side, her dark chestnut curls waterfalling down her shoulders, leaving the long milky column of her neck lolling and exposed. Freckles and hairpins adorned her skin. Her chest rose and fell with soft, sleepy breaths.

Mr. Darcy knew he should turn and walk away, pretend he hadn’t even entered the library in the first place (the lady was BAREFOOT after all), but he couldn’t. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. He could barely breathe. As if of their own accord, Mr. Darcy saw his feet move towards her, drawn inexorably closer to her gloriously lovely form. 

He felt himself sit next to her. He could practically feel her breath plume out into the soft silence. Darcy just sat. For the first time that day, he didn’t worry, he didn’t think. He just sat, and watched. 

Eventually, Darcy caught a twitch in her brow. Her mouth opened, and she yawned openly. He would have been aghast (and amused) by this unladylike behavior, except Elizabeth arched her back and moaned, and all breath was caught in his throat.

Elizabeth’s eyes were still closed, and her eyebrows curved in discomfort. Her lip protruded in a slight pout, and she patted around her for a pillow. Darcy covered his mouth to stifle a chuckle. Groaning, the lady sat up and blindly groped around for something. All the pillows were on the floor. Her eyes still pressed tightly shut, Elizabeth’s hand found a leg, then another. 

Before he could move, Elizabeth sleepily murmured her assent, and curled up again, her head in his lap. She mumbled wordless promises into the fabric covering his thighs. She let out a long, contented sigh, and stilled.

Darcy sat rigidly, afraid to move. It was as if a feral cat had just claimed him as a companion. An astounding occurrence to be sure, but was it a welcome one? 

He looked down into the sleeping woman’s face. She looked so young, so peaceful. Her pink-tinged cheeks were rounded across her jawline, and that cute little button nose was dusted with freckles. A few curls escaped what little pins remained, and drifted across her brow. Without thinking, he brushed them away. Her skin was so, so soft. 

For the first time in days, Darcy was happy. He wasn’t angry, he wasn’t under stress, he wasn’t plotting or counting figures in his head, he was just there. He was just happy.

It occurred to Mr Darcy that perhaps he should be worried about a possible…  _ reaction _ he could have, from being subjected to a very pretty lady falling asleep in his lap. But he wasn’t. He still wanted her (GOD he wanted her), but not in the physical since. Right now, anyway.

All he wanted to do at the moment was keep her safe. Just.. to hold her, and feel her skin against his, breathe the same air that she did. To hold her, and protect her, and never let her go. Never let anything happen to the soft, freckled minx asleep in his lap.

_ Minx,  _ he thought with a smile.  _ It is usually an insult of sorts, but.. I rather like it as an endearment. Minx. My little minx.  _ The smile stuck in place as he watched her breath rise and fall with the ticking of a far-off clock.

He ran his fingers (almost unconsciously) across her hairline, brushing stray curls out of her eyes. She murmured her drowsy approval, and he smiled wider. She was so cute, half-asleep. He petted her hair as one would do with a cat, delighting in the fuzzy texture that was unconventional for ladies, but really quite intoxicating.

“Miss you,” she whispered into him. “Love..”

He froze, and stared at her. She did not seem to be waking; her breathing was deep and steady. A serene smile graced her countenance. 

“I love you so much,” she murmured around closed lips.

Mr. Darcy felt his heart stop. His thoughts were nonexistent. His breathing addled. His fingers hovered over her scalp, unsure of what to do. She looked incandescently lovely right then. He could feel color rising to his cheeks. She sighed into him.

“I miss you, papa,” she murmured. 

He let out a long breath. He didn’t know why his chest was aching. He didn’t know why his throat felt raw and his eyes heavy. Then it struck him. He wanted her to say that to him. He wanted her love. He wanted it, more than anything. 

_ Was.. HE in love? With HER? No, it could not be. Yes, she was invariably handsome, but he should not be in danger for that! She was intelligent, yes, but she was a spy! An enemy! Albeit a kindhearted one, but an enemy nonetheless! He could not be.. be… He had to go. _

Carefully, slowly, he eased up her head and slipped out from under her. She murmured her displeasure, whimpering, and Darcy was struck dumb with the urge to hold her close again. He wanted to feel her warmth against his body, to see her sleepy smile light up the night. Groaning, he pulled himself away before he could do something he would regret. Like kiss her forehead. Or run away. Or propose. Or, quite possibly, all three. 

Placing a pillow under her head, Darcy left the library as quietly as he came. He didn’t look back. If he did, his resolve would have broken. And he was _not_ about to break. _Not him._ Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey yall! I hoped I would post again soon, but honestly, this fic feels a little stale to me. I kinda got carried away and developed their feelings before the story was ready :/ I’m very sorry— I know how frustrating it is to get into unfinished fic, but I hold out hope that one day I may still add to this; the plot is still ripe in my mind. But until then, thank you so much for reading this, hope you liked it, have a great day! Feel free to check out some of my other, finished stories!  
> Love, Vinny 🍁


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